


gutter-punk

by nihilistending



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, BDSM, Bro and Dirk's relationship is entirely non-romantic., Illegal Activities, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kink Negotiation, Mental Health Issues, Mildly Dubious Consent, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Reference and discussion of alcoholism, References to Drugs, Self-Medication, Sibling Incest, Stalker-ish Tendencies, mild(?) description of panic attacks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-18 04:48:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 94,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11284041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nihilistending/pseuds/nihilistending
Summary: Say what you want about trailer trash, but growing up in this environment offers a unique perspective on life.Or: Dirk Strider grows up in a trailer park, all the while acutely aware of his billionaire older brother that has no idea he exists living two states away.





	1. getting out

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly this fic is only multi-chapter because I didn't want to cram both of the chapters I've already written into one chapter. (They work better separated, in my opinion.) I can't promise there will be a fully finished plot to this or anything. These are gonna be some short chapters because at this point they're kind of broken up in scenes/where it just makes sense to break them up.
> 
> Tell me what you think.

Say what you want about trailer trash, but growing up in this environment offers a unique perspective on life.

Make no mistake: you fucking hate it here. You and everyone around you with half a brain cell hate this shithole with a vengeance, but there are a few very raw things daily shat on your doorstep that you don’t think you’d ever learn elsewhere. Some things are so fucking specific that you refuse (bitterly, juvenile:  _ you just don’t understand me, Mom! You never understand!) _ to believe that anyone growing up in another place would get it. If they were even presented the opportunity.

You dropped out of high school when you turned eighteen. Everybody’s always told you  _ you’ll never get anywhere if you don’t finish high school, you’ll be trailer trash forever, you’ll always live in this shitty town if you don’t go to college and get out. _ It was extremely gratifying to see the look on their faces when you signed your way out. The desperate, habitually anxious part of your brain was frantic over it, whispering doubts, chastising your pride and obstinance for the sake of rebellion, but… you’ve always had something to prove.

Everyone here does. You like to think you have more promise, though, and it’s only on your  _ really shitty _ days that you stoop to thinking it’s all in your head.

Objectively, dissociatively, the attitude of the community is interesting and borderline bizarre. We reject the stereotype and implications behind it while playing into the aesthetics daily. People that don’t know shit about the life say that we’re wasting our money and we say  _ fuck you _ before spending our paychecks, (earned at the drive-through window at KFC while waiting for our breaks to fuck our co-workers on the floor of the walk-in freezer; or at Wal-Mart, bagging ‘til 3AM when the coked out crazies come out, going out to sell them whatever you’ve got out of the trunk of your car, which may or may not be duct-taped closed,) on shitty tattoos and drugs.

(You bought a tattoo kit to make some extra cash and ink your own shit, keep your nose out of drugs outside of the weed you buy to replace the anxiety medication you can’t afford without the health insurance you don’t have.) 

Everybody around here knows America’s fucked up through first-hand experience.

That you’re not making payments on your house fully makes up for the fact that your nextdoor neighbor got busted for making meth in his shed last week. Your neighbor on the other side has fourteen malnourished dogs and a coop overfull of noisy as fuck chickens. You don’t have any problem going to sleep at night to the sound of cat fights, dog fights, gunshots and breaking glass. The only time you wake up to those sounds these days is when it’s within the bounds of your own property. It’s a refined sense that you’re pretty fucking proud of.

Security is understandably a pretty big issue in these parts. Shitty rusted fences and near-feral mutts, almost everybody on the block owns a gun and isn’t afraid to wave it around in their front yard.

Your rep. protects you just as well, along with the assumptions everybody makes about you. Everybody knows that you’re the resident tattoo artist that gives a substantial community discount and, given the amount of people that traffic in and out of your single-wide, everybody thinks you’re fucking crazy. They’ve seen your sword collection, your puppets, the general weaponry clogging up your kitchen. Or they’ve heard about it.

In _Normal Society_ you assume people would avoid you for it or think less of you, but people are surprisingly accepting of your… quirks. In a good middle-class (or rich) neighborhood you’d be _that crazy motherfucker_ that people cross the street to avoid but, around here, you’re _that crazy motherfucker_ _with the puppets_ (for clarity, there’s more than one crazy motherfucker on the block) that people laugh over and point out when people need help starting their car without a thousand dollar fee you can’t pay even if it _would_ reliably fix your shit excuse for a vehicle.

The real scrutiny of the block is obvious. Even the other people on the block that like to think they’re above being labeled as  _ trailer trash _ scoff at the one house on the block that’s built up well enough to look like it would fit in an upper-class neighborhood. This shit isn’t abnormal, necessarily. There’s one on the next street, too, and two on the one after that. A barbed wire fence is built up around that fake-ass “diamond in the rough” like it’s some shitty government building. The renovations scream middle-class white christian, privilege, snitch, and careen so far out of the territory of “trailer trash.” The two trucks in the driveway (nice, new, shiny, lifted - the epitome of style in this shitty rural town south of Houston) only emphasize the point.

It all screams  _ confidence _ if not for the huge chain-link, barbed-wire-topped fence encircling the property. These assholes know that everyone on the street stares, peers in, and is at least a little bit bitter. They know they live in a bad neighborhood, they know that they’re watched, and they’re rightfully scared.

They’d move, you think, if they could sell their house. They haven’t tried because they know they can’t.

People try to be subtle about it, usually, but you could give less of a shit about that. You’ll sit in your brown, patchy yard for hours burning your skin and contemplating the confederate flag hanging on the inside of their front window. If you didn’t clearly remember before the barbed wire fence went up and the renovations started, you’d still be able to picture the trailer that mini-mansion started out as.

Everyone does this (maybe not as pointedly or obviously) but you’d like to think you’ve got a little bit more substance behind your narrow-eyed gawking.

1,500 miles or so away, two states over, another mansion is built up around posing trailer trash. You’ve been tracking that shit over the internet for years now, with increasing frequency after your dad died a few years ago, and you’ve only been thinking about it more and more after this eyesore across the street got built up.

“You leavin’ today?”

You look up from your fold-out, blinking and squinting past your shitty shades up at the silhouette of the skinhead from two doors down. Your cigarette’s nearly burned down to your fingers and you flick the butt to sprinkle the wasted ash into the dry grass. “Yeah,” you say just before taking the last puff and grinding the spark out on the bottom of your shoe before flicking it into the ditch. 

“That all you’re takin’?” he asks now, squinting down at the backpack leaned up against your chair. You nod. “I’d loan you my truck, y’know, if y’needed it.”

Waving him off, you heave yourself up to your full height, stooping to grab up your bag and haul it over your shoulder. The skinhead barely blinks as you situate your best sword against your back and reach back to adjust the tattooing kit digging into your lower back. “Wouldn’t be able to give it back. This shit’s one-way. You need t’get to work somehow.”

“Still got a few favors to cash in,” he says with a shrug. You know he’s not offering you his truck to pay off his debts, only excusing his abnormally neighborly behavior. 

Grinning at him in the semi-feral, challenging way people learn how to around here, you shrug, “I like having you under my thumb.”

He holds out the hand you tattooed four months ago for twenty bucks and a G, and you clap your hands together to pull him into your free arm for a hug. He pats your sweat-damp back and you pat his twice before you pull back.

“You got a piece?” he asks as he pulls back, tucking his hands into the pockets of his low-hanging, thread-bare jeans.

“Just a pipe,” you reply, tightening the straps of your bag on your shoulders and reaching into your pocket to fish out your keys. You spend a few seconds picking off your house-key (trailer key) before holding it out to him. “You can have my bong, if you want it.” Like he needs permission. You’re not deluded in the slightest that your house is gonna be gutted within hours.

“Want me to get you an O for the road?” he’s at least hesitant about taking your key, which is nice, and he’s grateful. That’s a generous offer.

“Nah, I’ll buy when I get there.” You shrug and you’re assuming that the two of you will break off at that, but he smiles with shocking genuity and pats your shoulder, shaking you on his way past to the front step of your trailer.

“Good luck,” he says as he passes, “always knew you’d get out.”

You reel, watching his back as he climbs the steps to your place and starts unlocking your door. Shaking your head, you recheck that your bag is zipped all the way up before climbing on the back of your bike.


	2. hindsight is 20/20

There is a certain degree of nuance to the shit you do.

In all your years of a fucked up head, you’ve only participated in something resembling therapy twice. Once when you were seventeen and your dad’s high blood pressure took him under, a handful of people interrogated you about your capability to hold shit together. The other time, you very fucking strategically informed your neighbor exactly how neurotic you are.

You probably over-stressed your similarity to John Hinckley with regard to Dave Lalonde and the extent of your connection to your puppets, but he served his purpose as far as your rumor-based security system and then got arrested for all the meth he cooked. He tied his own loose end up for you. But hey, it was nice getting to vent a few of the fucked up things swimming through your head.

Otherwise you haven’t really had a sounding board for… yourself in general. You like to think you’re a pretty self-aware individual, but that’s only if you ignore your own see-sawing between blind confidence and anxious insecurity.

You manage not to think too much about what you’re doing until you’re crossing the border from Texas into New Mexico. In hindsight it was probably getting out of Texas that shook you into your first attack; like much of the population of your hometown, you’ve never been out of the state. Hell, you’ve barely been outside of Brazoria county. Couldn’t afford it.

Can’t afford this, really.

By that point your trailer, (your paid off, passed-down-from-family childhood home,) would probably be entirely fucking gutted. Someone’s family is probably already squatting in it  and will be until all your utilities officially cut off. Anything you left there, intentionally or reluctantly or unknowingly, is already free game. Anything of value is definitely, definitely fucking gone.

You manage to drive through most of your panic attack but when it fully hits you that you’ve got less than you even had growing up you have to pull over.

Nobody stops to see what’s up with you and you’re thankful for it. You don’t know if it’s because you have a sword strapped to your back or because of your sleeves or if it’s just your posture on your bike but they don’t stop and you’re glad.

You don’t make it in under 23 hours like Google Maps said you would, but Google Maps is bullshit and you didn’t actually go all the way to Beverly Hills. Instead, you stop in Downtown L.A. and get a motel that only  _ slightly _ makes you feel like an outsider. It helps that it’s the middle of the night and you saw a few potentially drugged out undesirables on your way in. It helps that they give you the same reaction you got at home when you stare them down - staring right fucking back. It helps that the man at counter only barely glances the sword strapped to your back over before handing you your key.

It’s more than plausible that he has weirder people to worry about and keep in mind if the cops come looking for you for whatever reason, but you’re willing to bet that he has more suspicious looking folk run through here than some Texan wannabe samurai that’s still holding onto some baby-fat. Other kids your age wouldn’t call themselves kids and would probably think that your piercings and tattoos make you look older, but you know they do the opposite. This guy probably ballparks you at sixteen or seventeen. He doesn’t ask for your ID and even though that’s not a must-have for survival, it confirms that you’re in the right place.

Driver’s Ed. in the state of Texas told you that you should’ve pulled over to sleep before you even got out of the state and you want to fall straight into bed almost more than anything right now. Almost. Instead you head back out to the parking lot and swagger up to a group of women you’re more confident than not are prostitutes. They want nothing to do with you. You don’t look like a “Daddy’s Money” kind of punk kid and you’ve got an outdated weapon on your back, so you don’t blame them. Frankly, you don’t really want anything to do with them, either.

No disrespect to the art. You might end up taking it up yourself, in fact. They’re just not your type in that sense.

“Y’all know where I can make some good money tattooing without a license?”

For a while they just stare at you in silence, eyeing you over and looking amongst themselves. You briefly entertain the thought that the only word you said out of place was  _ y’all _ , but then you correct yourself: y’all is a contraction. Technically two words.

“I might know a guy who does,” says one of the women in a short black bob of a wig, but instead of offering you any more information or a card she just stares at you. 

She keeps her arms crossed when you pull out twenty bucks and two cigarettes, but she asks if you have a pen. You do. She writes a phone number on your arm, gives you some brief instructions that can be summarized as “How To Avoid Getting Hung Up On for Dummies”, and asks for a light. You light her cigarette, whip out some manners, and don’t blink when you only get a hum in return. 

When you get back to your motel room you write down the number and instructions on a notepad, tuck Lil Cal into your rented bed, and take a quick shower before you finally collapse into bed.


	3. social studies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these next two chapters came along/are coming along kind of clumsily and i dont know how i feel about them but tbh fuck it yknow.
> 
> gotta drill that thing into my head: finished, not perfect.

Cliques in the traditional high school movie sense, as far as you’ve seen, are a complete myth. In your childhood, everything’s been segregated by race first and foremost and then more-so from there.

In the trailer park, it went like this: the mexican kids hung out with the mexican kids, the black kids hung out with the black kids, and the white kids hung out with the white kids. The mexican kids (it didn’t actually matter if they were really mexican or not, any brown kid that spoke a lick of spanglish was a mexican as far as anyone in the park was concerned) were the most populous and by extension the most popular and important. There weren’t a whole lot of black kids in comparison, but they still ranked up above the white kids because not even the white kids liked the white kids.

Second rule of the trailer park: everyone is related.

Families buy out half the street with two or three trailers in a row and all of their family packed inside. Abusive white parents hitting their seven kids _and_ their five nieces or nephews next door, mexican parents screaming spanglish down across three doors when dinner’s ready, typical saturday night. In junior high, it was reasonable to assume that sharing a skin color meant sharing a bloodline. That only halfway changed in high school, when the district was bigger and marginally more diverse.

The only blood you had was passed out in the recliner or across the country. To survive like that you’ve either gotta mind your own business and be okay with being alone, or _make_ yourself family. You didn’t learn to make your own family ‘til you dropped out of high school, so you settled on solitude. It helped that you were smart and fast.

Unfortunately as a result you’ve always been terrible with people. You don’t know if your childhood unpopularity stemmed from or created your disability, but either way you’re left with the handicap.

You’re not good at making phone calls.

Around noon you wake up to a comparative stillness in your environment and the unfamiliar sounds of cars on the busy road nearby. You slide out of bed immediately, because over the years you’ve learned that lingering earns you no favors, and you brush aside the curtains to look outside at your bike. It’s still there, safe and apparently sound. You let the curtains fall shut.

After a short trip to the bathroom and a few minutes spent fucking with your hair, you sit back at the edge of the bed with your phone and the notepad you scribbled on last night. You pull Cal into your lap and spend a few minutes staring at the number punched into the keypad in clean black.

You’ve never been good with people, but you are good at doing what you have to. The good thing about phone calls, at least, is that nobody has to know your other arm is looped securely around your main man Lil Cal. That helps.

Hitting the crisp green **call** button, you put the phone to your ear and go over the instructions on the notepad in front of you in your head until you monotonously regurgitate them. It becomes apparent over a course of minutes that the guy on the other end of the line is a dealer and you imagine that the conversation might lapse into something easier if he didn’t sound so impatient and you didn’t sound so robotic.

You’re surprised that he sighs and asks if you’ve got anything to write on, so much so that you don’t say a thing until he prompts you again with an angry “ _hello?”_

“Y-yes sir,” you stutter, wincing at the hiccup in your voice, “I do. I’m ready when you are.”

You take down the shops that he lists off for you. Addresses, names of who to talk to, what to say so they don’t think you’re some undercover pig. Dutifully you take down the information in your chicken-scratch shorthand and when he’s done listing them off you ask how much two hundred bucks can get you in weed.

The answer is… not as much as you would’ve liked. You try not to let your reaction show in your voice when you say you’ll buy.

When you get back from picking that up, a big part of you wants to smoke all the weed first. Or at least the rest of your pack of cigarettes. The room already smells thickly of both so you’re not too worried about whether or not you can passingly do that, but you _are_ worried about some other things. A lot of other things. That’s kind of your problem.

Despite having smoked for a number of years now, you’re still a little worried about it making you dumb. Not permanently, obviously, (that worry usually comes around after a few hours of continuous smoking when you’re more than self medicating and officially balls deep into _getting stoned,_ ) but temporarily enough to fuck up some big things. Like making an important phone call that’s stressing you out.

Enough worries swim around in your head that you pass all together and set the plastic bag full of prime buds aside, assuming the position from before with Lil Cal in a vice grip and your phone in your other hand. You’re good at doing what you have to. You’re _good_ at _doing what you have to._

Realistically you don’t spend long on the phone, but it feels like forever. Three places to call and two of them give you a flat refusal. Luckily enough the last is willing to talk and you set up an appointment for the next day ‘cause you might as well head in while you’ve still got a clean outfit on hand.

Sighing heavily, you flop back into the creaky bed and stare up at the water-stained ceiling. They still may not take you, and you still need to decide-

Shaking your head, you squeeze one arm tighter around Cal’s flattened torso and reach out for the ziplock on your nightstand. You need to smoke yourself out before you drop into another attack.


	4. beverly hills - weezer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This week on "Dirk Tries Really Hard and is Really Creepy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, writing this fic so far has been pretty cool...? I try really hard not to care about what I'm doing so much as doing what I want, if that makes sense. I'm learning how to just let this fic happen and it's weirdly freeing to just throw everything I've written at the wall of ao3 instead of combing over it seven times to try and make it ~*perfect.*~
> 
> Anyway, here's this. I've wrote a little bit each of two more chapters after this and I can promise some significant background information in the future to clear some shit up. B)
> 
> Enjoy! Tell me what you think!

When you leave, you take all of your shit with you.

Any number of assumptions could be spun about why you decide to do that, but when it comes down to it all that matters is that it can all fit in your backpack and there is  _ very little _ left for you to lose. Security flat out doesn’t exist and you’re not willing to risk it.

So your dirty clothes pad the bottom of your bag along with a second outfit, the third covering your body. Cal is tucked in next with your pipe (stuffed in two pairs of socks) cradled in his lap, tattoo kit wedged carefully in between his legs. A smaller bag, stuffed with extra money and the shit that proves who you are, is padded in for some cushioning to make sure your pipe doesn’t fuckin’ break.

Shit you don’t care so much about is right on top: some art stuff, phone charger, headphones, toothbrush. The motel is left empty as you shut the door behind you.

* * *

 

With a soft sifting sound of paper shifting against paper, the final page of your sketchbook falls against the one before it followed shortly by the  _ plop  _ of the back cover. Tristan (she’d told you over the phone and again when you came in) lays her tattooed hand and polished nails over the back cover of your portfolio, looking up to meet your eyes. You feel childish and vulnerable with your sunglasses clipped to the front of your shirt and the legs of your sweatpants uneven from being pulled and pushed around to show off your ink.

“Have you ever worked in a shop before?”

_ Not really- _ needs to be a yes or no answer, beating around the bush is pathetic. You shouldn’t be ashamed about what you’re saying. “No.” Flat, giving up nothing unnecessary. “I worked out of my house by word of mouth. I’m self-taught.” Only incredible restraint keeps you from flinching under your own words.  _ Self taught, _ no doubt that’ll tank this. Fuck.  _ Fuck. _

Your list of options after this is pretty close to non-existent. 

“We’ll take you,” Tristan sighs, pushing your sketchbook across the table to you. “But we’re not gonna cover your ass for you, we’re not going to tolerate any weird shit, and your clients are gonna be more limited than what you’d get with a license. Gonna be cheaper, too.”

“I know.” Clipping back the impulsive  _ yes ma’am _ squeezes at your throat, but she won’t appreciate it. “Thank you.”

“Yeah,” she says as you gather up your sketchbook and start tucking it back into your bag with everything else. “Come in tomorrow morning and we’ll go over the shit you need to know and proper procedure. Seven-thirty.”

“I’ll be here,” you promise, shoving down the knotted up feeling in your chest and zipping your backpack closed. You pull your helmet on and head out knowing you’re gonna be here at seven.

* * *

 

What you’re allowed to charge is pretty close to what you expected, and your choice of clients is too. They’re all other people living -pretty much - under the radar like you are. They aren’t the kind of people that you’re sure society would accept, but that makes them your people. And at least you can give them good, non-infections tattoos relatively in their price range.

Which isn’t to say you aren’t inking gang signs or seeing more of strangers’ private bits than you’d really like, because you are, but… what you’re tattooing ends up cleaner and more well-done than what you think they’d normally get. You’d hoped that your quality would bring you more customers, but… that’s not the case. You only get a few daily, and you’re making…

Nowhere near enough.

Sitting on your chosen bench, arm slung around your backpack and half your attention on your bike, you alternate quickly between vacantly staring at the ground and pulling open Craigslist on your phone. You need a roommate, you need to start looking for a viable place to stay and way to live, but… you can’t stomach it. Every time you try you get this tight feeling in your chest closing up your lungs and a deep-set urgency in your bones to close out the tab immediately.

Kind of like the first few times you tried to look up your bro. Like you were doing something wrong. Always glancing over your shoulder to see if your dad was peering in on the community computer use.

You’ve only ever lived with him. It was hard -  _ really hard _ \- but you got used to it and knew what to do to protect yourself and keep  _ both _ of you safe. You adapted. It became the norm.  _ You’re good at doing what you have to. _

Nonetheless the second you open up the tab again you’re closing it.

You’re crazy and you fucking know that. You’re crazy _ and _ you’re a vulnerable, immature freak. Everything you care about that  _ is you  _ is only going to be looked upon with intense scrutiny and if your roommate doesn’t get you arrested or hurt, they’ll expect more from you than you’re ready to give. Functional, proper social interaction. Normalcy. Association. 

Shoving your phone between your thighs, you rock forward a little and try to look up above the tall buildings. With a combination of the pollution and tall buildings you can barely see the stars.

* * *

 

On the way to a laundromat you end up in Beverly Hills.

It isn’t actually on your way at all, but for the first time in the week since you’ve made it here you allow yourself to stray into territory you really don’t belong. A big part of you is terrified someone’s going to notice and arrest you or shoot you or - something. But the other half of you tries to convince the whole that you’re going to blend in with ease.

The Los Angeles tag on tumblr is half composed of random celebrity shots in public and half composed of gritty, mostly-amateur porn-stars. You look a little rough, a little more unique than your run-of-the-mill, but you could at least probably fit into the latter category. Right?

At the base of all these glittering, glamorous celebrity mansions are just more trailers. They’re dirty people, like you, that overuse drugs and do things they’re not supposed to because it’s expected that they do. Everyone likes to try and portray them as on the opposite end of the spectrum as you, but opposite ends attract. Attract and meet.

You stop outside of the Lalonde Estate, parking yourself across the street and looking in. A huge gate bars you from direct entry, and no doubt there’s some guy sitting behind it twenty-four seven with nothing better to do than screen anybody that tries to get in. Some poor fucker charged to open and close that never-creaky, shiny bitch just so some big-shot movie director doesn’t have to. He’s probably making some decent cash to stand by for button-pushing duty and jack off all day.

You wonder what kind of benefits he gets. How Dave talks to him. What days he gets off, what days he’s stuck working. Sitting. Waiting. All day. For some guy’s convenience.

Half hunched over your bike and staring, you spend awhile day-dreaming.


	5. a little bit of background

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i write like 99% of this story before bed while im woozy on benadryl trying to fall asleep. it's crazy.

After you turned ten you started getting pretty resentful. Up until then you did what you assume every kid that didn’t know better does: sucked up to your shitty dad to try and win over his worthless approval. It didn’t matter back then that he was only giving you attention for his own benefit because he was  _ giving you attention. _ Back then you were greedy for it without really knowing what you were asking for, but… when you turned ten, you kind of wised up.

Wised up in a stupid, vaguely childish sort of way that’s embarrassing to look back on now. 

You hated spending time with your dad because, when he  _ wasn’t _ pretending you didn’t exist and being generally uncomfortable, he interrupted every attempt you made to keep yourself happy by stacking on piles and piles of shit you didn’t need to think about. Money you had no control over, the past you couldn’t fix for him no matter how much he evidently expected you to, and everything you were  _ supposed _ to be doing so you didn’t end up like him. Rinse and repeat. 

His alcoholism and his own vys for attention didn’t help, either.

However, when you turned ten, you decided you were entitled to your own space and that  _ him  _ being in it didn’t mean that you couldn’t or shouldn’t be. He needed to make space for  _ you _ , not the other way around, and you shouldn’t he holed up in your room just because he thinks he’s entitled to more of the house than you are. So you planted yourself in the living room and stubbornly subjected yourself to his ambivalent company out of sheer spite and to prove a point he didn’t get. And for no other discernable effect.

When he was in a mood to be ignorable, your dad was pretty easily overlooked. He never really seemed like a person to you, more like an extra in your life. A placeholder. A stand-in. Something for you to grow next to for the sake of legal ease until you didn’t need a “guardian” anymore. Sometimes you got the feeling he felt the same way about it, but less in the “my world revolves around you, my child and legal charge” way and more in the  _ resentful _ way. Not that you suspect he ever really thought you were worth much. Smartest kid in the trailer park wasn’t that much of an achievement.

There was only one distinct time where he looked properly alive to you. Not active - you’d seen enough of that without the absence of any remaining substance - but real  _ life. _

The two of you were sitting in your living area, he in the chair he allegedly lost his virginity on and you sitting on the futon you unfortunately never lost your sense of smell on. Both of you were ignoring the other: you reading and waiting to change the channel to something  _ actually engaging, _ him thankfully very near snoring. That abruptly changed when something in the white-noise of the news caught his attention.

_ Dave Lalonde, _ his first and at the time only movie making noise across not only the  _ nation _ , but the entire fucking world. Your dad was sitting up straight in his chair, focusing his attention, and that in turn shifted yours. The newscasters were chattering, debating the  _ genius _ of his recently-released film, and discussing his background as well as projected future.

You weren’t paying attention to any of that because the first words out of your dad’s mouth were: “That’s my son.”

Before this point, you’d never heard a word no matter what you asked or how you asked it about your family history. You never learned a thing about your mom or even  _ possibilities _ of who she might’ve been - no ex-wives, ex-girlfriends - and certainly not a fucking thing about any other kids. And now… this.

Your dad spent the rest of the night babbling on about  _ Dave Lalonde, _ who should’ve been  _ Dave Strider, _ and you’re ashamed to say that it was through him that your obsession took root.

* * *

 

After that you followed the SBaHJ franchise fanatically. 

Almost immediately you disconnected your father from association. He was only the catalyst, hardly the foundation, and his involvement would only poison what good this was to you if it hadn’t already. There had been a few times you’d entertained the thought of sharing your discoveries about your brother, but thankfully you kept them all between yourself and Lil Cal. Nobody needed him to make Dave’s life all about himself.

Immediately you agreed wholeheartedly that Dave Lalonde was a  _ genius. _ His movies stunned you stupid with the nuance to them, and you were always rabid for content. You ate up his movies as he fed them to the masses, and even backtracked to find all of Dave’s hidden work. His comics kept you busy for a while, then his various blogs and social media, then his interviews, and then after consuming it all you cycled back to rake through for analysis.

Dave’s movies could keep you entertained for months. Every time you watched them you felt like you found something new. Not only about Dave’s work and his genius, but about him. And about yourself, too. On one hand Dave is respected  _ widely _ for what he accomplished on screen, a big-shot director that dissolved the barrier separating the man behind the camera and  _ movie stars. _ He is just as famous if not  _ more so _ than the actors and everybody  _ loved _ him. 

Deeper than that, his movies are trash. They’re stupid, meaningless, and  _ that’s _ what calls out to you. That’s what makes it personal. That’s what makes him closer to you than to anyone else because that  _ is _ you. Dave Lalonde didn’t even grow up in your house but he’s still yours. He’s shit, just like you are, and he’s owning it.

On the other hand… He’s shit. Just like you are. And he  _ can  _ own it. Everyone respects him and loves him wildly for the garbage he dishes out because he was  _ raised, _ not born, with a silver spoon in his mouth. He’s hot, he’s a genius, he’s the nation’s most eligible bachelor for Christ’s  _ fucking _ sake —

Dave is your dad’s favorite without even having met him. 

You’re dirty, crazy, threatening, and nobody wants you. You’re misplaced. You’re…  _ wrong _ and he’s right. And as much as you love him, you kind of hate him too.


	6. LGFUAD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> intr. new character, you're welcome. things have been spun. B)

Eventually you tackle the roommate situation the same way you’ve tackled your anxiety for the past six years: by getting stoned off your ass and biting the bullet when you’re so smoked out you don’t give a shit. As far as decision-making goes it isn’t the best tactic, but it’s the first time you’ve spent more than a minute on Craigslist in the past two weeks you’ve spent homeless.

Naturally, you don’t comb through as meticulously as you imagine you would’ve if you were sober. Instead you read through your options passively, drumming your fingers against Lil Cal’s back in the long pauses between pulls from your pipe. The window is cracked and the rickety ceiling fan above you wobbles and creaks with every circle it completes; taking a hit is a two handed job and a complicated production with the air flow in the room.

Eventually you come across something that is… pretty far from what you’re looking for, but you linger over it for an indescribable two minutes.

lf chill af roomie to share the cheapest rent i could find in la hmu if ur intrested ;)

You haven’t been sure what you want in a roommate since you really started considering how fucked up you are. Someone you could mesh with well enough, obviously, but… you never really have. You have no frame of reference for someone you would be able to cohabitate with happily except for a dubiously abusive drunk.

Even as stoned as you are you’re unimpressed by this ad, but… something is making you linger, pulling at you, and after what feels like a full minute of staring at that winky face you murmur to yourself - _fuck it._

* * *

 

Roxy’s chosen apartment is inconvenient in about a thousand ways. The two of you share a bathroom and your rooms are side by side, furnished with what Roxy refers to as “college dorm” mattresses. In your opinion they’re shittier, but you really wouldn’t know; you’ve barely driven by the community college in your hometown, much less actually seen a _real_ college.

Cockroaches scuttle across the kitchen floor as the two of you enter and flick on the lights. Roxy backpedals a few steps like the pests are in pursuit, whining a disgusted note as they squeeze under and around the grimy fridge. “Ehheh,” Roxy giggles sheepishly, looking up at you and shrugging, grinning through her unease. “Told ya it was cheap!” she chirps with sharp consonants and round, dragging vowels.

“Had’m back in Texas,” you drawl, pulling your sword - sheathe and all - from your back to start squishing the lingering bugs with the tip. “They were bigger there. And flew.”

Roxy visibly shudders and mutters “yuck” under her breath, waiting until you’d slain all that remained visible before she ventures forward across the chipped linoleum. “Ya sound like you were used to’em.”

“I lived in a trailer.” That explains it well enough. To your ears, at least.

“Great! Congratulations, they can be your problem, then!” She grins at you cheekily, pronouncing ‘problem’ like _prahblem_ . As she pinches your cheek, you think to yourself that you’ll _prahbly_ have a lot more problems than just that. Not as bitterly as you expect out of yourself.

* * *

 

Waking at six to the clacking sound of her heels and the sound of her bed-springs melds into waking up at five-thirty to go pick her up from the club without the slightest hiccup. You never think of it as a chore, you never consider boundaries, you just woke up one day and decided it would probably be a cool thing to do. So you did it. Roxy seemed to appreciate it, so you… kept doing it.

Roxy doesn’t have a car and you’re not actually sure she if she has a license. She took a cab when you didn’t pick her up and she clearly has some form of ID, so you’re not too worried about it. It’s the city, after all, she can get away with it.

Having a roommate is… a lot easier than having a “family.”

Living with your dad was contentious up until he died. When he wasn’t ignoring you he was picking fights or causing problems, eating together was a sitcom fairy-tale, and you found it hard to picture feeling any sort of affection for him even if you overlooked how apathetic to his existence you were. You lived adjacently rather than _together._

The difference becomes more distinct the longer that you live with Roxy.

Though she’s loud and disruptive and constantly in your space, living with Roxy is rarely hard. It’s annoying when she wakes you up too early on her days off and it was initially hard to adjust to how _touchy_ she is, but you don’t really have any other complaints.

This is probably the first time in your life that something you were worried about went unexpectedly well.

* * *

 

Social drinking is something you don’t have personal experience with and your own aversion to drinking has been present since you were little, so you don’t have much of a reference for normal alcohol consumption outside of your dad’s habits. In the rare times you visited neighbors - to buy weed, to play handyman for cash, to tattoo - you’d been offered a beer once or twice, seen bottles and boxes of wine, but never lingered long enough or often enough to keep track of their habits. Not that they would be a good reference point for healthy drinking. Too much stress, too many problems, more than enough reason.

Apparently. You don’t really know enough about it - by design - to know what is and isn’t a good reason to drink. They all seem the same to you. Avoiding problems, momentarily stifling them, or giving yourself an excuse to be emotionally vulnerable and let out some of that pressure.

Roxy, you realize about a month into living together, is probably an alcoholic.

The two of you have a comfortably melded lifestyle. You share food, cook for each other, give each other rides, shop for each other - but she’s never asked you to buy alcohol for her and, you’re noticing all in one moment, evidently keeps up with that all on her own. Thinking back, there’s _always_ been a box of wine in the fridge and a couple bottles of cheap liquor up on top.

(Did you really never notice or did you _actively avoid_ noticing?)

Roxy’s awake when you come home from work one day, stretched out on the futon in her bra and short shorts that you imagine she either _does_ wear at work or _used_ to wear at work. You shut the door slowly, more quietly, and she speaks up before you can address her _fucking weird_ choice in lounge-around attire.

“I’m not goin’ t’work today,” she sighs, struggling for a moment to sit up without spilling the plastic cup of wine in her hand. After settling upright, she adjusts her bra to keep herself from falling out of it. You frown. “There was kinda this thing last night with this guy. I already called in and Leia said it was cool.” She explains this like you’re going to judge her for it, quick and quiet, more slurred than usual.

As the silence stretches on between you two - (your bad) - she seems to realize this and adds, awkwardly: “Y’know, so… you don’t have to drive me.”

You’ve got a lot you could say, but even more to think on. You toe off your shoes and hook your keys on the push-pin next to the door. “What happened last night?” you prod, stuffing down your discomfort and sitting next to her on the couch. _Immediately_ Roxy relaxes and presses against your side. You’ve never owned a cat, or really even come very close to one, but you’ve seen enough cat videos on the internet (some at Roxy’s insistence) that you know it’s catlike when she stretches her body against yours and flops drunkly into your lap.

Her cup, at least, is momentarily forgotten on the only table - (short, shitty) - in your apartment.

“He was just bein’ really shitty n’stuff. Got, like, super outta hand during a lap dance and started yelling and shit when we called him out.” She sighs, barely gives you a second of time to respond before she moves on - “you gonna go to bed? Sorry I didn’t make dinner…”

“It’s cool. I’ll make it.” She squirms out from under your arm, sitting up and smacking a kiss to your cheek. You still, ruffling her hair in a faltering motion of your hand before pulling yourself fully upright. Heading into your tiny kitchen, you pretend not to notice the way she flops back into the couch and stares after you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are always super appreciated to every extent!


	7. outside the walls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ppppfff writing is always a WIP  
> this is improvement yall even if it doesnt look like it

A mere three months ago a pretty blond New Yorker got in a fight with her parents. 

It was some dumb shit that’s got more inane personal weight to people so buried up to their neck in _ ‘cultural’ _ shit that they’re stuck decades - maybe even centuries - in the past. A greek girl not even by blood gets kicked out of the family for wanting to fuck around outside of it. The way Roxy describes it, “My Big Fat Greek Wedding without the good relationships and like, 90% of the plot.”

All Roxy wanted was to go to fucking college for science and put off the idea of marrying some greek douchebag, but now she’s a stripper in L.A. living with… you. Not an accomplishment, in your mind, but Roxy’s got another idea of it. 

A little tipsy, swaddled in blankets with the popcorn bowl precariously perched on her knees, Roxy confesses that you’re _ prahbably _ her soul-mate. It’s one of your shared nights off together and this… isn’t how you planned on spending it. Of course, before you can properly spin your simmering anxiety into some words, Roxy takes off on an explanation. 

“Like, I didn’t care ‘bout my parents too much honestly? That probably sounds real crappy, but I didn’t. I think I knew I was adopted way before they told me, ‘cause they-...” she stops, huffs a frustrated sound, continues in a snap. “I never really connected with’em, y’know? Like they were there, and I cared. It hurt obviously, and I loved them, but… they just never really felt right to me. You feel right to me. You’re easy t’be around.”

While you feel the same way, you’re… not so sure you should say it. “I felt the same about my dad,” you say instead, taking the popcorn bowl from her legs and wedging it between her thigh and yours. “He was always just… _ there _ . He never felt like a real person. Just… like a cardboard cut-out. A placeholder.” 

“What happened t’him? He still around?” Roxy doesn’t press your feelings about her. Doesn’t fish for something harder than an implication that she’s more concrete than he ever was. You’re overwhelmingly thankful for it. 

“Dead. Heart attack. It’s been a few years, no big deal. Do you realize you’re an alcoholic?” The two of you have been playing this back and forth game for almost half an hour, and shockingly this is the first huge blunder you’ve made. Your wording is harsh and your tone does little to soothe that, and you very nearly flinch under that realization.

Roxy, bless her, doesn’t mention it. You’re so fucking gifted by how much she lets your shit roll off of her. If anything she seems bothered by the subject matter, because it takes her a while to respond as she looks down into her pink wine. “Yeah,” she says, resigned and shifting to lean against your side. You scoot the popcorn bowl to the table, wrapping your arm around her to make up for your shitty verbal control.

_ I still love you, _ swirls around in your head, bittersweet-toned and surprising enough to rattle your whole body. You’ve never loved anyone before. Admired, maybe, in Dave’s case, but you can’t say you love him in a genuine way. You never loved your dad. You never thought that you would love anyone, much less… an alcoholic.

It’s been nothing like your dad, though.

“I know I am. It’s been… a while, it’s interfered with a lot, but…” she shrugs and you think that… maybe that is the saddest and most effected that you’ve seen her. “I can’t even really explain why I do it. Kinda the same problem I had with my parents? Feeling disconnected. This… feels like a way to connect. Or at least forget about needing to…”

“Yeah,” you murmur your empathy, hand cupping her blanket-covered shoulder and rubbing. “I’m kind of like that with Lil Cal. And… Dave Lalonde. I’ve been following his career for a while, and…” you stop just short of stuttering. Alcohol dependency is a serious thing and you’re essentially saying all she needs is a good doll and a celebrity to obsess over. Is Cal a dependency? Probably. Is Dave an addiction? … Probably. “It’s not really healthy. It’s not the same, either, I get that. But. I’ve…”

“Never really felt connected, either?” Roxy finishes for you, voice quiet in a way it never is. Her head leans on your shoulder and she’s staring up at you in this… this  _ way. _

“Yeah,” you murmur, averting your eyes quickly to look instead to her wine cup.

* * *

 

After that you start… working on her. 

It doesn’t work nearly as hands-on as you expected it to. It probably wouldn’t, even if you tried, because Roxy’s sneaky and she’d get alcohol into the house one way or another if she really wanted it. Hell, the alcohol once you _ started _ noticing it seemed like it appeared out of thin air. She must get it while you’re at work or in the shower or something because one second it’s there and the next second it’s not with seemingly not a hair out of place. 

Instead you just… kind of keep Roxy honest. In a way you think she’s just scared of disappointing you because sometimes you’ll be looking at her and she’ll get these… really particular looks on her face. Sometimes it looks like relief and affection, sometimes it looks a little bitter and guilty, but either tone it takes you start to read those expressions as the  _ I can’t drink because Dirk will be upset _ face.

It’s… a warming and strange feeling that you never could’ve expected. You don’t really know how to pin it down and you’ve settled on calling it shocked flattery.

At first it’s just tapering off. The two of you disguise it as budgeting when you sit down for the first time in the two months you’ve lived together to work out a concrete money plan between you. You keep the numbers straight, Roxy reminds you that you can’t just eat three different processed foods all the time, both of you neglect to mention that the amount of alcohol you’ve worked out to be planned purchases during the week is significantly less than she usually goes through.

It feels better than you expected it would.

Progressively it wears down to nothing in the house. Roxy might drink at work, once or twice, but a good deterrent there is that she’s  _ not allowed to _ and she _ needs the job. _

* * *

 

Needless to say you’re a little surprised when she invites you out _ clubbing. _

The whole exchange is mostly awkward and kind of bizarre with plenty of pauses for an _ uhh… what…? _ on your part and some high-pitched, 50mph explanations from Roxy. A few of the other girls from Roxy’s work want to go out, she wants you to meet some new people, and we’re going somewhere that cards. Pointedly.

It’s an exercise in restraint, you think, and part of you is nervous about how much Roxy’s testing her limits, here, but… in the nearly three months you’ve known her you’ve never been able to wrangle her. That, and she’s taught you a thing or two about your anxiety altering your perception of her capability. Most notably, the time she called you from work to come pick her up early because some asshole got handsy and you brought your sword… only to find that she’d already laid him out over the curb and halfway in the gutter. All she had was a broken heel and his unconscious body to show for it, but that was enough for both of you.

When you get to the door after a ride in one of the other girls’ cars, you flash your ID behind Roxy and the two of you get a clear purple ‘X’ on the back of your hands. None of the women scooting in ahead of you received the same, and at this point you’re a little suspicious that either you or Roxy are being trusted to drive them home.

You… really hope Roxy has a license. If not to prove that your vehicular capabilities aren’t your only reason to tag along, then just so you’re not entirely liable for getting them all home tonight. Roxy’s much more of a people person than you are.

It’s obvious that this is your first time in a club. Almost everyone here looks like they’re dressed for the occasion and you, on the other hand, pulled your pants out of your laundry basket and worried over the ink stain bleeding up the entire right thigh before deciding to put them on anyway. If people aren’t dancing they’re talking. If they’re not talking they’re kissing, drinking, or employed here. Probably.

People bump into you from every direction and you shift your eyes over to Roxy, lips twisted uncomfortably. She looks like she’s having a great time. In her element here, already eyeing up the dance floor like she’d be out there already if not for one of her co-workers still pinning her down with conversation.

More people bump into you from every direction and your arms tickle and itch - like roaches are swarming up your legs and down the back of your shirt. Your throat feels tight and, at the same time that you feel a little faint, you feel like you’ve got too much energy. The only way to release it is through the vibration of your limbs and… pacing, probably, if there was room.

“Dirk?” Roxy’s voice brings you back and you blink a few times, looking down at her. She looks confused, worried, you straighten out your face - if it wasn’t already. Is it? You can’t really tell.

“Yeah?” you don’t think she heard you, so you lean down and speak a little louder, a little closer to her ear. “Yeah?”

“Are you okay?” she shouts back, raising a hand to touch your chest and pulling her hand away immediately as you flinch back. Someone’s drink spills down your back, you think, and you hope it’s just water but it probably isn’t. It’s probably something fruity that’s going to smell like shit later and stick to your back in a gross way.

“Yeah,” you shout back immediately, considering for a moment as you rehash that idea in your head. Roxy is already leaning back a little to look at you with a raised, skeptical, well-trimmed eyebrow. “I’m feeling - uh -” you wince, shifting your body this way and that to try and minimize contact. “... A little over-stimulated. I think I’m just gonna go stand over to the side a little bit.”

“D’you wanna leave?” she asks, catching you with a little tug at the hem of your shirt. “We can leave, if you want? It’s super okay, I’ll just-”

“No, it’s cool.” You brush her off, hand and all, shaking your head for emphasis. “Text me intermittently. I’ll be around.” You give her a cool thumbs-up. It’s a little bit shaky, but with all the jostling and rumblingly loud music you don’t think she’ll notice.

Roxy clearly hesitates for a few seconds before she nods, holding up two fingers in an out-dated peace sign. You huff out a laugh and smile at her as she slips back through the crowd - slick and easy, practiced. On the other hand, you bumble through the crowd with next to no grace, knocking into people and spilling more drinks all over yourself.

By the time you get out of the crowd and off to one of the darkened borders of the room, you’re itching for a cigarette, a blunt, Cal’s cushion under your fingertips. Flexing your hands, you swallow thickly and sweep your eyes around yourself, pushing up your glasses to get a better look. It’s dimly lit here, but you think you can just barely spot a couple tucked in one of the plush booths down the row. Wrinkling your nose, you take a seat a considerable distance away and let yourself calm down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are always always always appreciated
> 
> EDIT: also. hoping to update again tomorrow or the day after. i haven't started up the next chapter quite yet but i've been thinking about it for a while.


	8. one sip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> congrats, we've finally made it to the explicit rating!  
> content warning for some dub-con stuff.

You debate leaving until the liquid seeping through your shirt heats and turns sticky. The club is pretty hot, (even when you’re not dead-center in a mass of moving people,) and the splashes through your shirt to your skin were refreshing at first… but now it all mingles with your sweat and feels disgusting.

You need a shower. Bad.

When someone falls into the seat next to you, you bristle and startle. “Whoa,” he laughs when you turn to face him, unshaded eyes wide and staring straight into familiar aviators. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. Thought you saw me.” His arm stretches over the back of the booth, weight barely pressing against your shoulders. “I’m Dave. Dave Lalonde.”

This. Definitely isn’t how you expected to meet him. Did you ever really expect to meet him? Not really, despite having moved all the way out to L.A. for this - for him. Kind of. Mostly. Completely. The smirk around Dave’s lips is slipping a little, imperceptible if not for how long you’ve spent studying his typically unwavering facial expressions, and you realize that you’ve just been wordlessly staring at him since he say down here. “Dirk,” you blurt out, embarrassment flooding you quickly. “It’s. Uh. It’s cool.”

Dave’s arm resettles over your shoulder and he presses a little closer, smirk picking right back up fluidly. In his free hand some pretty gold liquid swirls in a glass. “Cool,” he echoes, voice smooth and neutral-toned, cool as ice with none of that awkward stuttering that you’re used to from yourself. He sounds a little like you, you think, but not quite as deep and with none of the accent. He sounds different in person. “You hanging here alone?” 

Every time it takes you a little longer than it should to register that he’s talking to you. Starstruck is probably the word to describe how you’re feeling, as much as you hate it. Your feelings are way more fucking complicated than that, but you are. You’re giddy, almost shy and desperately hoping none of it shows in your face or your posture. 

“Nah,” you say, trying for cool and missing the mark abysmally, probably. “My friend and some of her co-workers are…” you can barely take your eyes off of him long enough to glance toward the dance floor, dumbly afraid that he’ll disappear if you’re not looking at him. “Somewhere. Over there, I think.” 

“Oh,” you get the feeling he doesn’t really care and, the moment that word is uttered, you don’t really care either. “Can I buy you a drink?”

You’ve never had any desire to drink and never taken up any opportunity you’ve been given. Fuck  _ doing it to be cool _ or anything like that. Alcoholism never got anyone anywhere. Swallowing thickly around the words you can’t produce, you just raise your marked hand to show the purple ‘X’ on the back. Dave snorts, taking a drink from his glass before pulling his arm out from behind you. 

Your heart jumps in your throat, you almost grab for his shirt to keep him close but the motion is immediately aborted because  _ wow, _ you cannot do that. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I’ll order us some shots. What’re you into?” 

“Uh. Whiskey.”

You say. To be cool.  _ Nice. _

“Sure,” Dave drinks down the rest of his glass and sets it on the table in front of you. “I’ll be right back,” he informs you as he slips out of the booth. You watch his back as he makes his way to the bar, heart hammering, and immediately you pull your phone from your pocket.

Roxy’s already texted you twice, but you don’t even read them before your fingers frantically flew across the keyboard.

TT: I jsutmet Dave Lalaonde.

TG: omg what

TT: Dave Lalonde just sat next ti me and now he’s gryting me a drink.

TG: dirky r u ok you sound like ur freaking out

TT: I am.

TG: ok or freaking out???

TT: I am.

She texts you again - a few more times - but six glasses clink on the table in front of you and Dave drops back into place beside you. His shirt is neon pink and glowing, his pants are white and baggy and covered in similarly neon splotches that glow under the blacklight just like the rest of him. Especially his crotch. His crotch is a singular beacon of blacklight reactivity and you’re pretty sure that was intentional. 

Pretty sure.

“Texting your friend?” he asks, but before you can answer him he’s putting a shot in your hand and clinking his own against yours. “On three,” he leans in to say into your ear. Proper nightclub etiquette, you guess, even though you’re plenty close enough and it’s not quite as noisy over here. “One, two, three.”

You rush to take the shot, because of course you do, and half of it spills out of the corners of your mouth in your urgency and maybe a quarter of the rest is spit in your lap because  _ whatthefuckthatsgross. _

“Oh man,” Dave is laughing, “kid, have you never been to a party? Come on, I paid for that.”

Your face is hot with embarrassment and only gets hotter when he calls you  _ kid. _ Does he know you’re his little brother? Probably, right? I mean, he must’ve looked up who his real parents were. He must know you exist. 

“Don’t taste it,” he takes the shot from your fingers and puts it rim-down on the table before picking up a second and handing it to you. “Just pour it right back yo your throat and swallow. All at once, on three. Cool?”

“Cool,” you cough, wiping your mouth on your wrist and looking up at Dave as he picks up his own glass, arm slung over your shoulders. “Ready? One…” he clinks his glass against yours before bringing the small glass up to his lips. “Two… Three,” you only hesitate for a second before you open your mouth wide and shoot the whiskey back to your throat. You  _ still  _ taste it on your tongue, but you manage to swallow it all down this time before you descend into another coughing fit.

Dave’s hand rubs down between your shoulders and you don’t even notice when your phone stops buzzing against your thigh. “Cool, man, way better.” You lick your lips and immediately regret it, wiping your mouth off on your wrist again. “Think you can do one more?”

His arm stays around your shoulders as you do one more, chill and easy, and stays there still as the two of you lean back against the booth when you’re done. All your fucking life - or, for the past decade at least - you’ve been practicing for this and shaping yourself for this, but now that you’re here you have no fucking clue what to say.

“Are you from Texas?” he starts anyway, and your heart leaps into your chest for the - what? millionth? - millionth time tonight; both at the prospect of being expected to say something and because this must,  _ must _ be because he knows you’re his brother. Or suspects, at least. “Is that, like, offensive to ask? It’d be really fucking embarrassing if you weren’t, because pretty much everyone in the south sounds the same I.M.O., but if you’re actually from Georgia or something it’d be like:  _ Fuck no, I’m not from Texas, how dare you put me in the same category as Paula Dean. _ ” He pauses and you’re too fucking stunned to stop him. “Is Paula Dean even from Texas?” He refocuses on you, mouth twisted to the side. “Say  _ pecan. _ ”

“... Pecan.”

You can’t see his eyes, but you get the sense that Dave is squinting at you. “Are you just saying it like that because I said it like that?” 

“Uh… no…?”

“So you’re not from Texas.”

“I am from Texas.  _ Pee-can _ is just… a stupid way to say pecan.”

“D’you wanna come hang out at my place?”

“...” You stare at him, mouth hanging open a little bit, before you manage to stutter out: “yes.”

* * *

 

As you make your way out of the club, you’re expecting a limo. Not out of any entitlement, obviously, but you know who Dave is and you’ve seen him get out of enough that you figured that was the only way he got around. Instead you’re lead to a sleek red ferrari. Which… is more surprising than you expected. Double irony, you guess: it’s unexpected because everyone expects him to do something unexpected.

You open the door and the passenger floor is covered in ties and empty cigarette cartons, receipts and empty fast-food cups. The inside of the car, as you sit down, doesn’t have that crisp new car smell. Instead it smells like cigarette smoke and something else you can’t pin down - musty and… just like the car needs to be cleaned. 

You should text Roxy.

Dave drops himself into the driver’s seat, lifting his hips to fumble his keys out of his pocket. “Are you, uh…” you’re kind of afraid he’s ignoring you, ‘cause he doesn’t physically acknowledge you speaking. At all. “Are you cool to drive?”

“Haven’t gotten a DWI yet,” he grins at you, starting up the car and pulling back out of his parking spot  _ way _ too quickly. You scramble for your seatbelt, clipping it in place and gripping the security handle on the door tightly. He jerks to a stop in the driveway out of the lot, taking the time to convert the hood and pat his pockets down until he pulls out a pack of cigarettes. 

You have a lot of big problems with this, but you can’t bring yourself to voice them. That’s not like you, really not like you, but… as much as you don’t like this, you don’t want to get kicked out of Dave’s car.

Someone honks at the two of you, Dave flips them off with one hand and sets his cigarette between his teeth with the other. He fumbles his lighter. A few times. A lot. You reach out to take his lighter from him and strike the starter with your thumb.

“Thanks,” he mumbles around the butt, flipping off the person - or persons - behind you one more time before pulling out onto the street.

By some miracle, between point A and point B you don’t get in any accidents. You have no idea how much Dave had before he got to you, but you’re starting to suspect it was… more than enough to make this drastically unsafe. All thought of texting Roxy has completely evaporated from your mind.

_ The Dave Situation _ has vacillated between comfortable and uncomfortable regularly since it’s development, but somehow you never thought that actually interacting with him - if you ever got the opportunity - would ever be anything but comfortable. 

You were wrong. This is horrible. There are only a few times in your life you can remember where you’ve been more uncomfortable. Meeting Dave has been a brief relief from the crushing claustrophobia of the club, but you’re back. Back in the frigid, bone-chilling embrace of anxiety. You’re both fully disconnected from your body and hyper aware of it; how badly you’re shaking, how hard your heart is pounding.

Dave doesn’t share your sentiment. The ferrari jerks to a stop possibly inches from his front gate and Dave leans a little too far over the edge of his car. “Heeey, Marcus! Markie-Mark, my man.” 

Marcus presses a button to open the gate, waving to Dave and barely looking up from his phone. “Hello, Mister Lalonde.” 

Dave fires some finger-guns at him and pulls through too quickly, skidding along his long driveway and parking in front of his mansion. His estate. His big fucking house.

“You’re breathing kind of hard,” he points out, pushing his door open and stumbling a little as he steps out. You fumble your seatbelt and follow, figuring he won’t mind if you don’t respond. 

“Here it is!” he announces, slinging an arm over your shoulders. “Casa de Lalonde,” he pronounces his fake last name like it’s  _ fancy, _ french, elegant. Which it probably is. He looks to you for approval and you look back to him, wetting your lips and swallowing around the knot in your throat. 

“It’s… big.” 

“Pff, yeah it is. You ever been in a place like this? You don’t look like it.” 

“No,” you admit, murmured, raising a hand to clutch your hand in the back of his obnoxious shirt. It doesn’t make you feel much better, but you get a heavy dose of  _ I’m touching Dave Lalonde _ numbing agent. You feel a little better.  _ More _ like you’re going to throw up, instead of less, but… in a better way. 

“Cool,” he borderline giggles, dragging you to the door by the hand and punching a code into the keypad beside it. You’re surprised he can manage it as well as he is. Maybe he’s not as drunk as you think. “You wanna drink some more? I’ve got a pretty cool wine cellar. California, you know, grapes and shit. Sooo much wine.” 

The thought makes you more nauseous and this time you manage to shake your head. Your heart hammers, and you’re sort of scared he’s just going to shove you back out the door.

Instead he closes it behind you.

“Alright,” he shrugs, “c’mon.” He gestures with a tip of his head before leading the way up one of the huge staircases in the gigantic foyer. You really haven’t ever seen a house like this. The only places you’ve seen the inside of were other trailers and shacks and apartments - shitty places with nowhere near this much space.

You feel smaller than you are. This place is immaculate, spotless and organized with movie posters and framed magazines displayed, huge pieces of art.

You never could’ve expected anything like this. Maybe you should’ve. You probably should’ve. He probably has a maid service or something.

Pulling you up another flight of stairs, Dave guides you through to another impersonal room. This doesn’t even look like his style. Everything sort of matches: all soft blues and pale golds paired with bright white and deep, contrasting black. It’s a bedroom, but you’re pretty sure it’s not  _ his _ bedroom. You wonder if he lives with anyone else. To your knowledge he doesn’t.

You startle as Dave’s body presses against yours, accidentally smacking your nose into his when he presses his face close to yours. His lips press flush with yours. 

There are a few seconds where you’re still with shock. You’ve been kissed maybe five times in your life, including this one, and. What. What-

Both your hands fit to his shoulders and push some space between you. “What’s up?” he asks, sounding confused and - maybe annoyed? Probably annoyed. What - why -

“Uh.”

“I’ve got condoms and lube, chill, I’m not an asshole,” he pauses to scoff, hands pushing your shirt up in the back, sliding through sticky, dried-on cocktail or - what the fuck ever. “Is this your first time or something?”

“Um. No.” You reply immediately, face hot and stomach churning. 

Dave’s fingers push your glasses up to the top of your head, where they were when he found you, and his voice drops to a teasing purr. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” he pulls you closer and a shiver rocks through your body. You’ve never heard those words before, especially not - well, you’ve. Never really heard anything in this context, actually. “You never been with a guy before?” he asks, pushing you back toward the bed and leaning in again to brush your lips together. “Believe me, I’ve dealt with a few closet cases. Don’t worry about it.” He snickers.

“I just. Wasn’t… uh…”

Mid-word, Dave kisses you again and slides his hands down the back of your pants. You dig your nails into his shoulders and press your hips forward in a reflexive jerk away from his fingers. Dave huffs what - maybe - might be the beginning notes of a moan against your lips. Is that what that sounds like, for real? You move your lips back against his slowly, hands flexing at the collar of his shirt - squeezing tighter and loosening as you try to work the shaking out of your fingers.

“You cool with this..?” he asks, lips still brushing yours.

“Mmnh..” you swallow, trying to think. There’s too much shit to think through. He’s your brother, you’ve thought about this before, he’s drunk, you’re… probably drunk? Are you cool with this? You’re still shaking. You’ve never done this–

Dave pulls back a little further, the hold of his arms loosening–

“Yeah-yes. I’m. Yeah, I’m cool.”

For a few seconds Dave doesn’t move or say anything, but then he pulls you back in against him wordlessly and kisses you with a new aggression. Step by step he herds you back to the bed and slides his hands up your shirt, tugging it up inch by inch.

When he gets it off of you he stares for a second at your upper arm, barking a raspy laugh. “What the fuck is that?” 

“Um…” you turn your arm to look at your shoulder.  _ That _ is your Hella Jeff tattoo. “... Hella Jeff.”

“Yeah, but it’s.” Dave draws back his hands to cover his face as he laughs, fingers working up under his shades to rub his eyes. “From the  _ comics _ , my God. I made those-”

“When you were in high school,” you finish for him, looking down at your discarded shirt and crossing your arms.

“At least you’re not a hater, I guess…?” Dave looks a little apprehensive, here, and you… wonder how many rabid fans you resemble in this moment.

“It - uh…” How do you make this better. “It was my first tattoo, after the second movie came out. I was… like… fifteen.” You clear your throat.  _ That’s really not going to help anything. _

A second ago you didn’t even really want him to touch you but now -  _ now _ you’re scared that he  _ won’t. _ This is the fucking end of this shit, if he doesn’t keep his interest in you. If this - if all of this was in the interest of getting in your pants, then that’s all he’s interested in. If he stops being interested in that tonight - 

“So you’re a big fan?”

“Kinda,” you murmur, going for cool. Going for  _ not creepy. _ Keepable. You reach for his hips and pull him closer, still trembling as you lean in to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Is that… uh… bad…?”

Thankfully he seems a little distracted by that, sliding his hands up your sides. Reflexively you twitch and startle, still unused to being touched and, maybe, just a little ticklish. “So-” he mumbles against your lips, “- you’re, what, nineteen…?”

“Twenty,” you murmur, pushing his shirt up and helping him struggle his way out of it. 

“Oh, thank fuck,” Dave is quick to adjust his glasses on his nose as he comes out from under his shirt, his hands more sure on the waist of your pants. It’s not too hard for him to tug them down, (they don’t fit you very well,) and he pushes you down onto the mattress with them looped around your ankles.

It’s only distantly that you realize you’re already hard. His thighs are soft where they press into yours, knees on either side of your hips and cock thrusting into your crotch. Your heart hammers against your chest and when he presses himself flat against you, you hope that he can’t feel it. His tongue is in your mouth and you can kind of taste the whiskey on his tongue but if his mouth is at all tinged with his cigarette from earlier you can’t tell. 

Contrasting the softness of his thighs, Dave’s chest is cut and firm. You’re more surprised that he’s not fit all over than you are that he’s fit at all - you’ve seen the times he’s modeled, you’ve seen his bare chest before, you’ve - been ashamed to appreciate it, before.

It never felt real, back then, as much as you were trying to  _ make _ it real. You always excused it to yourself: as long as it wasn’t real, as long has he was a thousand miles away, as long as he didn’t know - it wasn’t real.

Now it’s real. Now it’s real and now you can properly feel that shame you felt before full-force and in your face. It’s not justifiable anymore.

Your hands stutter on their way down Dave’s chest, splaying over his hot skin. Lips breaking apart from yours, Dave gasps against your cheek. “Take m’fucking pants off,” he murmurs, voice slurred in either a  _ drunk _ way or a  _ heavily aroused _ way.

“Yeah,” you whisper back, swallowing thickly and shakily opening up Dave’s pants, pushing them down. You bend a leg up and push them the rest of the way with your feet. An awkward game of footsie ensues where you both try to get his shoes and pants off and fail until you don’t. Dave presses his face into your neck and laughs, nipping along the dotted line of your tattoo between snickering.

“This shit is edgy as fuck, man,” he sighs under your ear, breath hitching as you fit your palm over his cock and rock your hand against him. 

Admittedly, this is very gratifying.

“Do it all myself,” you whisper, voice hitching and dying off as he wiggles your boxers down. He doesn’t say anything back to you, too preoccupied with getting your boxers off your legs and leaning over you to get at the bedside table. “Dude,” you grunt when he nearly elbows you in the face, pushing his arm away.

“Chill,” he clips, sitting back on his heels and raking his eyes over your body. “Maaan,” he draws out, wrapping his fingers around the base of your cock and stroking in loose passes. It’s dry as fuck and nowhere near tight enough, but it still feels -

Dave smirks when you cover your mouth to stifle your moan, hips twitching forward to nudge his cock against your balls - “Take your gloves off, dude, that’s so weird.”

You frown.

“Take your shades off,” you challenge back. “That’s fuckin’ weird.”

“Uh, no. They’re, like, my whole image.” 

You push yourself up on your elbows, your own shades tugging where they were stuck in your hair before dropping onto the bed, rolling under your shoulders as the bed dips. One of your eyebrows raise.

Dave stares back at you for all of ten seconds.

“There’s a difference, dude. Those are, like, gross. When was the last time you cleaned those? Do you jerk off in them?”Dave lifts up over your hips and takes the opportunity mid-argument to strip himself naked. Except for his shades.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” you quip back, eyes dipping down to eye up his dick before jumping back up to his face.  _ Why the fuck, _ you think to yourself,  _ you’re here to have sex, it’s not like you’re not allowed to look. _ You look down.  _ But staring is weird.  _ You look back up.  _ Fuck. _

Because he’s a cheeky fuck, Dave shows you his bare hands. They’re a little freckly, like yours. Pale, calloused. His fingers are shorter and thicker than yours, but -

“Yeah. Leaving my gloves on.”

Dave sighs heavily and starts squeezing lube onto his fingers, shifting one leg at a time to sit between your thighs instead of over them. Immediately you’re shaking again, legs spread over his knees - “Are you really that attached to those cheap fingerless scraps of leather, or are you just doing this to spite me? Actually, why am I even asking. Of course you’re really  _ that attached _ to them. It’s like your whole aesthetic.”

You fish behind your back to grab your shades out from under you, tossing them off the edge of the bed. “I’m. Uh…”

His fingers brush behind your balls, cold and wet and shocking, and you hike your knee up to your chest to plant a foot on his chest and push him back. Dave stops, blinking down your leg before slapping your thigh and squeezing it. “Bendy,” he comments, leering, “you’ve got nice legs.”

“Just…” you grab the bottle of lube where it fell between your hip and the bed. You fumble the bottle a few times, face flaming hot and knees lent together. “Let me do it.”

Dave backs off, but snickers first. “You’re  _ such _ a virgin, dude. Like don’t even try to front anymore, you’re just straight up pure white snow. Freshly fallen, untrampled, not a hint of brown or yellow or fucking anything.” While you slick up your fingers Dave tears open the condom packet.

“Shut the fuck up…” you murmur, opening your legs slowly and reaching down to slide your fingers over your hole. You’re… not new to this, at least, you’ve done  _ this _ yourself. You know how to deal with it when you do it. You just…  _ don’t _ think you can handle having Dave’s fingers up your ass. Right now.

Jerking himself with his pre-lubed hand, Dave leans back on his free palm and eyes you up shamelessly.  _ Yeah, _ you’re not so sure it matters whether he’s fingering you or not, at this point, you still feel vulnerable and exposed, laid open for him- “I guess I kind of see your point with the gloves,” Dave muses, your fingers stuttering to a stop where they’d just started to edge inside of you. As soon as his lips start to tilt into a smirk- well, a wider smirk- you narrow your eyes and start up again. 

Dave crawls on top of you, knee knocking your hip and weight jostling the bed as he scoots up your body. His hand cups your jaw, thumb pressing against your lips and dragging to the corner of your mouth - pulling, pinching your cheek. “Suck my dick.”

Well.  _ Okay. _

With how often you’ve heard that in the past - (Not in this context, definitely. Ever. More in the shitty middle-schooler way.) - you never thought you’d actually hear it  _ like this _ and find it.  _ Really fucking hot. _ But God Damn, you are definitely opening your mouth without even really thinking about it. And he’s definitely. Definitely. Putting a lube-slick, latexy cock in your mouth. 

You moan around him, face hot and hips lifting off the bed - you’re not sure if you’re trying to get more friction or trying to get your fingers deeper into yourself or both, but you’ve got better things to focus on anyway. Like Dave’s fingers sliding into your hair and gripping tight, dragging you into slow, dragging thrusts. This is -  _ hard, _ (haha) either because of the angle or because of how thick he is -

Only distantly do you care about him fucking up your hair or how you’re having a little trouble breathing or how drool (or lube, or something) is dribbling down your chin, but mostly you don’t care about anything but the cock on your tongue and working your fingers deeper into yourself.

When you’re three fingers in, knuckle deep, Dave slides his cock out of your mouth and doesn’t thrust it back in. He’s laughing at you, fingers combing through your hair, a thumb brushing under your eye. “You’re some type of sub, aren’t you?” he’s grinning, his words sounding like they’re laughing too as he drags the tip of his cock over your lips. That only makes him laugh harder, and you don’t get  _ why _ at first until you realize that you’re mouthing at the tip. “ _ God _ , I picked up a little slut and neither of us even  _ knew _ it until we got here.” 

“Shut up,” you mutter, muffled by the cock still pressed just between your lips.

“Mmhm,” he hums, pulling away and settling back between your legs, his fingers sliding over your fingers. One hand guides your hand away by the wrist, squeezing, and your fingers are replaced by his. Shorter but thicker, thrusting into you two at a time, spreading and testing.

You cover your mouth with your arm as you moan, body going rigid and back bowing off of the mattress. Dave snickers again, squeezing your thigh and pulling your leg tight against his. The wet head of his cock edges against your rim and his palms spread your ass open-

“Da- _ ave, _ ” you moan into your arm, teeth grazing your own skin.  _ Fuck, _ that’s so embarrassing. You sound - you sound so -

Your thoughts are interrupted by Dave’s teeth against your jaw and one of his hands pushing your arms back over your head. There’s a distinct thunk-clatter of something dropping off the bed, but all it gets out of you is a brief startle before you forget about it entirely. Dave’s pace barely builds, feeling like it doubles and triples and quadruples before you can process it.

Every word - gasped curses and directions, comments that you can’t reply to - feels like it’s carried on a laugh. You don’t know if that’s normal. You don’t know if he’s laughing  _ at  _ you or if this is normal in the middle of sex-

God, you don’t care.

You think that you come but you don’t really know. Dave’s thrusts don’t even stutter, don’t break for a moment as pleasure washes over you and  _ keeps _ washing over you. His hands slacken where they pin your elbows, sliding down your biceps and over your chest, and you don’t know for sure when he comes, too, but his rocking slows and you can feel shivers running up and down his spine under your palms. 

Eventually Dave laying on top of you blurs into Dave laying against your side. His thighs are still soft on either side of your leg. Your thighs are sore, still shaking, but the trembling feels… good, and not as scary as it did at first.

“Damn,” Dave sighs against your shoulder eventually, squirming more than you’d like. You think he’s taking the condom off, and that thought is dubiously confirmed by the gross  _ plap _ of wet material against wood flooring. A growl stirs up in your throat as Dave climbs up to the head of the bed, dragging you with him and wrestling the blankets around you both. “Don’t pitch a fit,” Dave laughs again, the rims of his glasses absent now as he presses your noses together, kisses you. 

Most kisses land off-center and messy, wet and sweet. It’s good. It feels so good, having Dave’s hands all over you. You feel real, concrete, and  _ present _ as his fingers drag over your skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyone else think its funny that i consistently dish out 1k-2k chapters and then end up giving you over 4k of porn
> 
> comments always super appreciated. this was, ftr, my first time writing a complete nsfw scene.


	9. a little hung over and i may have to steal your soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote some unplanned morning sex and suddenly this chapter is over 3k again. specifically it's ~5k. SIGHS HEAVILY. enjoy you guys
> 
> ft. dirk thinks/does some unstable shit. again. this is not the last time haha.

Life has been a struggle for as long as you can remember. You want to attribute this to the park or your dad, but deep down you don’t think you can really blame anything but yourself. Maybe the  _ supremely shitty _ universe. Maybe God, if you believed in that kind of thing.

Of course, you  _ could _ blame all those things. Some of the evidence lines up, some of it makes sense. Growing up was hard for you because you didn’t have money to make it easy, your dad was neglectful, your environment was hostile. Hell, a good chunk of the kids you grew up with probably had a heaping plateful of  _ depression _ laid out in front of them, too.

It’s probably dramatic to say that you had it worse. Or that you genuinely can’t remember a period of time where you felt better than just  _ fine. _ That you’ve always been alone.

You had your dad, technically. You had the people in the park that hadn’t fucked you over yet. You have Roxy, for now.

So you won’t say you had it worse, you’ll say you’re just overlooking the good times you  _ have _ had because you’ve got a naturally pessimistic disposition. But…

Your insomnia has always been a pressing issue. Typically you don’t get more than five hours uninterrupted, more often erring on the side of three or four hours before your body rouses you. Sometimes this pushes you into mindless activities until you drop again, sometimes this leaves you staring at the ceiling for hours until you either fall asleep again or resign yourself to wakefulness. 

One time you’d asked your father - in some other context, for some other purpose - what you were like as a baby. The real root of the discussion was somewhere along the lines of you not being able to picture him  _ actually taking care of you _ , because you’d never experienced it, and the answer to that was that he didn’t.

Evidently, the way he described it, you were a fussy kid. You were so suffocatingly needy and clingy that he couldn’t leave you alone in a room without you bawling. You wouldn’t sleep alone in your crib unless he was holding your hand and, even then, your preferred place to sleep was on his chest. Typically that might be cute to think about, clingy babies being close to their daddy, but the reality of  _ that _ situation is that it’s only cute if it’s reciprocal. 

Which it wasn’t. No surprise. He didn’t want to deal with you like that, so he left you to cry until you learned not to.

He didn’t tell you this specifically, but you imagine that he took care of you the absolute bare minimum and left you to figure out the rest. The best he could’ve done for you, you think, is Lil Cal. And you don’t even know for sure where the fuck he came from.

* * *

 

When you wake up, you’ve slept a lot longer than you expected. You can’t tell what time it is for sure, but you can see light leaking through the curtains and you don’t feel like you were woken up by a truck rolling over you. Instead, you feel… warm.

With how little you’re touched - have ever been touched - it’s surprisingly unobtrusive to wake with another person curled beside you, wrapped around you. Your face is tucked into Dave’s neck, under his chin, and his arms are both tight around your body. 

The weight of his arm over your waist isn’t suffocating, but instead comforting and warm. His hand on your naked back. His other arm wedged under your pillow in a way that would strike you as uncomfortable in theory but is anything  _ but _ that in practice.

You could cry. In fact, your eyes are already watering. This feels so good.

Shuffling closer, you tuck your thighs around one of his and tighten your arm around his body, ignoring the way the other tingles between your chests - numb, poorly circulated. 

Dave smells good in a way you can’t pin down. Something purely related to whatever laundry detergent or body products he uses, mixed with a musky probably-sex-or-sweat-or-both scent. 

Your body tingles with a sense for how badly you want to touch him. Not sexually, necessarily, but you want to drag your fingers over his skin and  _ feel _ him in a way you never, never get an opportunity. You don’t touch people, you barely talk to people. The hugs you  _ do _ get are few and far- (far, far, far,)- between, and never last for more than a matter of seconds.

Most days you don’t notice this at all.

But right now you’re  _ choked _ by how much you want to touch him and never let go. You want to span your hands over his body and note down his warmth, commit how the skin of another person feels to memory. Your body feels like it’s starving, trembling with weakness for how badly you need to monopolize this sensation. But at the same time you’re too afraid to move.

Laying your head back against his shoulder fully you breathe in deeply and try to soothe the shudders involuntarily vibrating your body. Dave’s arms shift and you still, waiting as they move across your skin and resettle. Wait as his head shifts on the pillow and his lips rest closer to your forehead. 

Dave’s breath sighs against your skin, deep and sleepy, and just barely undercurrent the inhale-exhale gusts of his respiration is this tiny growling resistance that you recognize as a subtle snore.

Your obsession sinks levels and levels deeper. It’s always- well, not always, but  _ mostly _ \- been well kept and under control but now… now you feel like it’s damningly unleashed. You love him more deeply now than you think you could ever love a person. You feel this connection deep-deep-deep in your chest that almost,  _ almost _ convinces you a soul is more than a consciousness - mixtures of chemicals and firings that’s purely scientific. 

Now that you’ve been this close, felt this much, you… don’t know what you’re going to do.

The relief in this moment is soul-crushing, simultaneously making you feel so good and so comfortable and one of the  _ lowest _ forms of depressed. This shit doesn’t last. This shit doesn’t last and you don’t know how to draw it out or make it happen again. This was all a fluke.

You hike your thigh up over Dave’s hip, ignoring the tingle of unease that rolls up your spine as he rouses under you. His snoring stutters to a stop and his arms shift where they held around your frame. Pushing past that spike of fear, you urge Dave onto his back and settle yourself on top of him.

The sheets slip around your shoulders, falling in a silky heap around your hips as you sit up on top of him. Making a whiny, sleepy-hurt sound, Dave’s arms stretch and his nose scrunches up like he’s squinting against the sun. Fuck, you don’t really know him at all but you can still call it long before he starts reaching out for the nightstand, for his glasses. 

Your hands are around his wrists before they make it an inch, pinning them tight to the pillows, and Dave’s whole body goes rigid. He still doesn’t open his eyes.

“Morning,” you murmur, voice sleep heavy and a little raspy but still… softer than it usually leans. Dave probably doesn’t notice, doesn’t know. Doesn’t.

“Is it? Shit, man, figured it’d be common courtesy here not to wake me up before noon. Especially when we’re both probably rocking super-mag hangovers.” You can’t tell if he’s nervous or not, but he hasn’t opened his eyes yet and his hands are tense as you shift his thick wrists into the confines of one of your long-fingered hands. 

As velcro rips apart, Dave’s eyes open to meet yours over the knuckles of your hand. You pull your glove off with your teeth, tossing it off of the bed and delighting in the way you can feel his breath hitch in the movement of his stomach under your dick. You switch your hands, your hold looser, and keep your voice to a low whisper. 

“Your eyes are pretty.” You flick the second glove off of the bed. “I’ve never seen them before.”

“Um…” he responds, cut off by the way you squeeze his wrists before you let go of them. You know he had some more important thoughts swirling around in his head, but all he can say as you lean for his night-stand and fish for another condom, (the lube’s… on the floor, you remark with a glance,) is “hah, I should fuck teenagers more often.”

“I’m twenty,” you remind him, slowly rolling the condom down his cock and shuffling back on his thighs.

“May be more morally correct and stuff, but it’s the same dif., Twinkie.” Dave gasps, sinking his fingers into your hair as you drag your tongue up his latex-wrapped dick. Your first instinct is to bite him, swat his hands away, but… Fuck it, your hair’s already trashed anyway right now. You don’t really like it that much, but you let him grab.

You’ve never really had opportunity to physically explore your sexuality before. You’ve felt it out through porn, know most of your theoretical preferences, but  _ in practice _ you haven’t gotten any chances to really make note of the sensations. Even last night, everything was a little blurry and went by too fast for you to remember any of it with clarity.

So you try now, dragging your tongue along the lower curve of his cock and brushing your lips over the head. The latex under your lips, you think, muffles the sensation for both of you. You’re not going to really feel his skin so much as the texture covering it, you’re not really going to taste  _ him _ , so much as the thin layer of probably-lube coating the condom.

Fuck it.  _ Fuck this. _

Dave whines loudly as you pull your mouth away from him, trying to tug you closer by the hair, but your fingers roll the condom back up over his cock and he sits up. “Whoa,” he says, dumbly and like he’s still caught up in his semi - which was quickly on its way to fully erect. “Just waking me up to blue-ball me, man? Not fucking cool, dude, I was nut-deep in sleeping for a week and I expected full compensation for waking up.”

“If you don’t really believe I’m a virgin-  _ was _ a virgin- after last night, you can afford to get tested. And treated...” You flick the condom to the edge of the bed, wrapping your hand around the base of his dick and stroking the pad of your thumb halfway up. No shame, you press your nose into his pale pubes, nuzzling, dragging your tongue over what you can reach of his sack.

“Uhh…” Glancing up you can just barely see a sliver of his red, narrowed eyes. His teeth are an uncanny picture-perfect white where they pull at his lip. His hands both comb through your hair and knot up at the nape of your neck. “Shit,” he murmurs, “fine - just. Get your mouth on me, dude, please. Don’t tease me like this, bro, totally uncool.”

Your chest feels light and crushingly constricting at the same time, almost choking you as you falter into movement. That word almost-inexplicably makes you dizzy and you can’t at all manage a response as you wrap your lips around the head of your cock and slip your tongue through the slit at the top. He’s hard, but he’s not  _ leaking _ yet. Still, you can taste the slightest hint of precome - salty and warm…

Dave’s impatient. His legs are jittery under your arms and his cock twitches in your mouth. His nails dig the slightest bit into your scalp and honestly you don’t care because you’re taking  _ this _ for you. It isn’t a race to get him off as fast as possible, it’s a  _ study _ of his taste on your tongue and the way his hot soft-but-hard skin feels in your mouth. It’s note-taking; jotting down the way his girth stretches your lips and tries your jaw as you take him deeper. It’s practice in keeping your teeth away from his skin.

Writhing your tongue against the underside of his dick, curling it part-way around the length  _ both _ ways, it feels gut-curlingly good at the same time that it feels unpleasant when you break the seal of your lips around him and pull back up to his tip. Your saliva coats your chin and lower lip, covers the top half of his dick in sticky threads, slicks your hand when you stroke him and  _ you think _ makes him moan when you turn your eyes up on him again.

“You gotta suck more,” he gasps, pushing your hair back from your forehead and shifting up onto an arm. You squirm forward as he scoots back, taking the opportunity to rub up against the sheets and lick your lips. “Jesus,” he huffs, almost laughing if not for struggling to breathe. “Am I seriously teaching you how to give a blowjob, right now? Man-”

“Are you seriously complaining?” you grunt, dragging the barbell through your tongue over his sack pointedly. You close your lips around one of his balls and suck, rolling it in your mouth and over and over and over your piercing before letting his hold on your hair ease you off. 

Free hand combing back his own bangs, Dave pants and keeps his eyes - a little wider now - focused down on you. Maybe you’ll let him fuck your mouth again, when you’re done… with this.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice ragged. Pride swells up in you distinctly, muddling with the arousal that punches into your stomach. You kiss at the base of his cock and speak against it - exaggerating the motions of your lips just  _ slightly. _

“Dunno if I want you to come in my mouth or if I wanna ride you first.” You delight in the way his cock twitches, slicking your tongue up his cock to catch the dribble of precome down the thick vein. 

“God damnit,” he keens in response, hips twitching and the slick tip of his cock rubbing up against the piercing through your brow. You snicker, kissing open-mouthed at the base of him and slowly making your way up in a trail of your lips. “Man, I don’t care, but you’ve gotta fuckin’ decide because I’m going crazy here.”

Humming, you sit up on your elbows and guide the tip of his cock to your tongue, rubbing it slowly back to the furthest point you can tolerate, then forward over your piercing to the tip. You take care to drag the rounded gold ball of your piercing through his slit.

“God, you’re a fucking slut,” he whines, half affectionate, and you’ve got a mind to throw a fit about it before you look up and see his  _ face. _ You can see his eyes, vibrantly red in the iris and half closed. His teeth are on his lip, pulling at it between pants, and when he sees you look at him his lips part in a barely-audible gasp. 

You’ve got him totally under your thumb, all his attention on you, and it feels  _ so _ good.

_ I want to taste you,  _ you consider saying but don’t. Instead you take him back along your tongue and into your throat. You can’t take him much farther than you did before, but your mouth is watering around him and slicking his skin beneath your lips, easy for you to stroke down to his base with your tight fist. You fuck your mouth slow and easy on his cock, getting used to the texture of his soft-warm skin, getting used to his taste on your tongue.

At first Dave only grunts and makes these soft little gasping sounds, babbling words you can barely make out they’re so garbled, but slowly - (slower than he wants, you can tell by how many times you have to pin his hips to the bed with both your hands and cast glares up - threaten to pull off) - you work and work and work him down to moaning up to the ceiling. Were he not leaning up against the headboard you suspect his head would be dug back into the pillow, his back arching in a curve toward you.

He looks so good and you feel so  _ powerful. _ It took some time but you affect him so  _ much. _ So much more than you’ve ever seen him react  _ ever _ , in all your years of watching him.

Your hips rut up against the bed and Dave’s moan shivers to a stop, his hand  _ tugging _ your hair so rough and sharp you press your teeth to his skin before you fix your attention up on him. Glaring.

“Don’t come on my sheets, fucker,” he gasps, thumb stroking the point where your hair tugs at your hairline. “I’m not some kind of pillow princess, dude, I’m  _ so  _ getting you off after this,” his voice gets breathier and raspier as he speaks, tugging at your hair and pressing up against the palm that pins his hip. “Keep going,” he almost  _ whines, _ “come on…”

Huffing through your nose, you roll your tongue against the underside of his cock and slide your hand back to cup his sack in your palm, rolling his balls there and pulling off of his cock to kiss down its length. Dave whimpers his protests, until you roll your eyes and press your lips back to the tip of his cock, sliding your hands underneath his soft thighs. 

(You wonder if he’s self conscious of how thick they are, how soft and lacking in muscle they are in comparison to his chest.)

“Go ‘head,” you murmur against him, opening your mouth wide with your piercing rubbing up against his slit.

Dave barks a laugh, grinning boyishly. “ _ Head, _ ” he echoes, “go  _ head. _ ” As his laughter dies down he cups your head in both hands and mutters, “ _ thank fucking God, _ ” before pulling your mouth onto his cock.

_ What a moron. _

His hands urge you farther than you could’ve managed yourself. Dave pulls you into every rock of his hips and you’re surprised he doesn’t fuck your mouth quick and fast like he’s been urging since you started. Instead he starts at roughly the same pace that you’d been edging him at - albeit tugging you further onto him, dragging, almost gagging you with his girth. 

When he manages to fish a moan out of you his cock twitches on your tongue, his pace quickens in almost urgently stuttering thrusts before they level out to a smoother rock. “Mmmmfuck you look so good like this,” he moans, “you look so fuckin’ fucked up. Shit, baby, you look so wrecked. Lips all - fucked red, tearing up -  _ fuuuuck. _ ” 

Hands sliding up the back of his thighs, you squeeze Dave’s ass in your hands and dip into the next thrust, sucking slowly up his length and rocking your piercing just below the head of his cock. Come spills over the back of your tongue and Dave’s legs squeeze around your shoulders. He pulls your hair and yanks at the sheets, moaning long and loud as you swallow back the come dribbling over your tongue. 

You suck on him as long as he’ll let you, rubbing his cock with your tongue and kissing at the twitching, flushed tip. It’s only when he pulls you off - long after his legs go slack over your arms - that you let him go. Licking your lips, you lay your head on his thigh and look up at him.

“Jesus fuck,” he sighs, slumped back against the headboard and panting. “I- fuck, man…”

“You know what they say about enthusiasm,” you murmur, maybe too dryly, shamelessly kneading his buttcheeks in your hands and hiding your smile in his thigh, turning your face into his skin. Dave laughs, light and like he’s sapped of energy to put into it. 

“Get up here,” he forces a little more energy into his voice, patting his opposite thigh and tugging at you. Honestly you’re a little reluctant to let go of his ass, because his lower half is just squishy enough. You would be fully fucking happy using his cushion as a pillow. You could fall asleep again just like this.

But instead, (butt instead,) you pull yourself upright and wiggle into his lap, only noticing again the weight of your erection as it bobs between your stomach and his. Dave tugs you closer, leaning back against the headboard and wrapping his hand around your dick. “Don’t mind this?” he asks, even as he starts stroking you dry. His free hand reaches toward the nightstand -

“It’s on the floor,” you correct, and Dave groans. Casting his eyes over the edge of the bed and looking like you just told him the cat mutilated his three year old hamster on the carpet. Sure, the hamster was old and his death was imminent anyway, but  _ damn _ that cat.

You snicker at him, staying perched in his lap until he looks at you pleadingly. “Please, dude,” he says, dramatics stressed, “you just sucked my brains out through my dick. I can’t do it, man. It’s too far, too much, I might not be able to return.” 

Rolling your eyes, you pull yourself out of his lap to lean over the edge of the bed. Half the sheets are already down here, tangled up, and the lube is nowhere in sight. You pat around, legs still planted on the bed with Dave holding your ankles - not that you need it, but if that makes him feel helpful that’s fine. Eventually you bend a little further to fish under the bed for the bottle and find it, thankfully, without knocking it away. “Might’a just been easier for you to blow me,” you point out, straightening back up and scooting yourself back into his lap.

“I mean, watching you get all  _ twelve years of gymnastics _ wasn’t too hard for me,” Dave points out with a grin, pulling you closer with an arm around your waist. “At this point this is all just, like, gratitude payment or something.” Dave drizzles lube from the bottle straight over your cock and you almost knee him in the ribs.

“Jesus fuckin’ - could’ja watch it?” 

“Oh, baby, I’ve  _ been _ watchin’ it,” he says smugly, like he just made the funniest joke of his career. Better than the stairs thing, better than the after-after-after-after credits thing. He leers at you and you’re  _ this _ close to stripping one of the pillows and putting the case over his head.

You pointedly rock your hips against his stomach and his hand wraps around you again, soft palm spreading slick up and down your length. You shiver out a sigh, leaning back into the arm around you and pushing your cock into his hand in a steady rocking of your hips. 

Dave drags the fingers of his free hand through the extra lube pooled at the base of your cock and dripping down toward your sack, scooping it up off your skin with the side of his fingers before sliding them back, back and into your hole - still a little loose from the other night. You bite down on your lip, sucking it between your teeth until they knock against one of the studs through your lip. “Fuck,” you allow yourself to sigh, fisting your hands up in the blanket.

Somehow this time it feels so much more defined. Kind of invasive and uncomfortable, but - also just more…  _ more _ . You feel more conscious of what’s happening and everything sounds so much…  _ more vivid. _ When you let go of the discomfort it feels… so good.

Shakily you spread your legs wider and let your eyes rest on Dave’s face, where they previously flittered between facial features and distractions. Now you just watch him as he watches you. Dave’s attention is more focused on the shape of your body, you can tell. He’s focusing on your posture, on your cock - twitching in his hand - on his fingers moving in and out of you. As you shift your thighs to splay more open over his lap his attention snaps there.

It feels so good to have someone’s full attention on you. To have his touch on you and you alone, concentrated on wringing pleasure on you. You don’t know what he gets from it, if anything, but you… figure it’s something similar to how you felt with his cock in his mouth.

Maybe different, because the motion of his skin sliding across your tongue was definitely… stimulating, at the very least.

You don’t know what he gets out of this and you like it. You like that, because you can’t explain away his actions with manipulation or selfishness. 

“Hey, did I lose you, dude?” he asks, voice a mixture of amused and genuinely curious. He rubs the head of your cock with your thumb and the twitch of his smirk widening coincides with the smallest jerk of your hips. He’s peering at you, now, looking at your face and searching for your reaction.

You feel comfortable at the same time that you’ve never felt more pressured to school your features into what would be expected. You’ve always had - so much trouble emoting. But you don’t want him to stop.

“Yea- I, uh… No.”

“Yeah, no?” he echoes, laughing all the while. This time audibly. His grin only widens as you feel your face distinctly heat, and as much as you want to look away you can’t. As much as he tries to hide his eyes, they’re mesmerizing. Enthralling. Trapping.

You grunt and he snickers again, lower now, his palm moving faster over your skin and his fingers curling inside of you, rocking surprisingly deep. Though his fingers are shorter than yours it feels like they reach  _ deeper. _ Maybe - maybe his hands are just bigger, maybe they look shorter just because they’re thicker. Maybe–

“A-aah,” you moan inadvertently, hips jerking up beyond your control and the joint of your pelvis and thigh twinging as you splay them further. 

“You know,” Dave is saying, voice deep and rasping and sounding aroused despite  _ just _ getting off. “– for a virgin, you’re a  _ really  _ good lay.” He leans in over you, fingers shoving deeper more suddenly, knuckles bumping your skin. “There really  _ is  _ something to say about enthusiasm, man, like  _ fuck, _ you’re intense.” 

You’ve been called “ _ intense”  _ before, but you’ve never considered it flattering until now. His lips trail your collarbone, shift back up to bite over the tiny scissors tattooed at the beginning of the dotted line across your neck. He sucks there, tongue sweeping over skin. And God, it  _ would’ve  _ been nice to get a blowjob out of him.

That verges on the edge of a spiraling thought and you pull it back, try your best to clear your head and focus on the callous of his thumb rubbing into the slit at the tip of your cock - spreading your precome. You wrap one of your arms around his shoulders to hold him close as you rut up against his hand and into his fingers in stuttering jerks of your hips. “ _ Fuck _ ,” you whine, and remark to yourself that you’ve never heard yourself  _ sound _ like that. You keen out a drawn “ _ Bro!”  _ and ignore the way Dave chuckles against the hickies he’s sucking into your skin.

* * *

 

Growing up, you were almost unhinged in your aggressiveness and your immediate reaction to most negative stimuli was lashing out. Physically. 

Just around the time you got into high school you leveled out, started sliding into more controlled territory. You’d like to say that you always had a handle on yourself, but as a kid you were… much more reactive, bitter, hateful, angry. 

Looking back on it speculatively, it’s concerning in a way you’ve never addressed aloud. And probably never will. Everything was a threat when you were a kid and you approached (still approach) everything with life or death paranoia. It always felt like you were being hunted, like everything you encountered needed to be approached with  _ survival _ in mind because everything threatened it.

Everything was a weapon in your hands from Lil Cal to a pencil, and even when you had nothing  _ on _ hand your body was a weapon.

It still seriously scares you to think about your potential as a murderer or otherwise a criminal, if you weren’t as smart. If you didn’t know the repercussions. If  _ the law _ weren’t a factor.

Before you turned ten it hardly even was, honestly. You thought often about how badly you could hurt someone, but until you had a reason to care about that it didn’t concern you much.

You don’t know why Dave changed that. You don’t know how. You don’t know if it was about spite, (because he was better than you, because you knew you were considered trash and he wasn’t) or if it was because you wanted to be… acceptable. Loveable. Different and worth something.

* * *

 

Dave comes out of the on suite bathroom with his fingers tapping the screen of his phone rapidly. You’re pretty sure he didn’t go in there with it, and he’s still shamelessly naked, so you’re… a little confused. You’ve been curled on the rumpled sheets of the bed since he ruffled your hair and got up to pee, just enjoying the soft cushion of the bed. You’ve never slept in a bed this soft. 

For a little while he just stands there on his phone. At first he was… texting. Or writing something. But as you track his fingers now from your vantage point, it looks like he’s either scrolling through a feed or reading… something. Maybe an article. 

He doesn’t say anything. He just does his own thing. It makes you nervous, but he looks… comfortable.

“This went on a little longer than usual,” he says finally minutes later, stretching his arms up over his head and elongating his back until it’s reasonable to assume it popped or cracked or accomplished whatever he was looking for. Bringing his phone back to its spot in front of his face, he taps out a few things with one thumb before asking for your phone number.

You give it to him, after a moment of stunned silence, and he at least looks like he’s tapping it in. You’d be a little more reassured if he spoke it back to you, but… on the other hand you can’t picture him doing it.

“Cool,”he says finally, starting to root through the clothes strewn at the foot of the bed. He tosses your shirt to you, which still smells like something sticky and fruity but is blessedly dry, and follows it with your pants, your socks, your underwear. “Not to like, break your heart or anything ‘cause I know you’re new to this. And you were like, a fantastic lay,” he clasps a hand to his chest and manages to make it look dramatic and sincere simultaneously, “- but this is the part where you leave because I’ve got movies to write and interviews to do and stuff.”

You stare at him.

Right. He picked you up to fuck you. No relation, no nothing. The only reason he’s being  _ kind of _ nice is because you woke him up with a blowjob. Because you did more than was expected of you. 

He doesn’t intend to keep you. He doesn’t like you as a person. He doesn’t care about you. He’s just getting laid and you… over-performed. 

…

You should fucking kill him.

He’s ruined your life up until this point and he’s just going to fucking throw you away. All your life he’s absorbed all the attention away from you, been better than you and more likeable and more loveable even though he’s  _ exactly the same. _ Dave is  _ no better  _ than you but he  _ thinks _ he is and everyone else  _ thinks _ he is and they all gave him an  _ easy fucking life  _ because of it. 

Nothing’s changed. Nothing’s changed between today and yesterday and this is just a reminder of that.

Raising an eyebrow at you, Dave leans down to pick up your glasses and hand them to you. His own are already on his face. Pristine, not scratched, retrieved from the nightstand before he ever picked yours up off the floor. You take your glasses and you aren’t even shaking. Your face is perfect, controlled, and even better after you slide your shades into place. 

You should kill him. And then you should kill yourself. 

“I’m taking your shower first,” you say, flat and easy. Deadpan, precise, buttoned up neatly. You stand and stretch your arms, one over your chest and then the other. You bend to curl your hands over your toes with rigid knees and a precise curve of your back. You roll your shoulders as you straighten and don’t wait for him to respond before you drop your clothes on the bed and head for the on-suite. 

He didn’t blurt a response because he couldn’t. You surprised him and you know it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just wanna say right now that i look forward to all of your comments and im so fucking gifted by all of the comments ive already gotten. i love all of you guys so much. honestly even just one comment makes my day and i'm always looking forward to hear even the shortest thoughts you guys have.
> 
> thank you guys so so much i wouldnt have made it this far without you <3
> 
> comments are always super super super appreciated as always. i hope you guys enjoyed!


	10. wake up we fall again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy birthday elvir!

Steam billows around the bathroom by the time you step into the shower, adjusting the temperature slightly before sliding down to sit on the floor with your feet stretched under the burning spray. It hurts a little bit, but that’s part of what makes it good.

Usually your showers don’t get too hot. Or, if they do, don’t stay that way for long. So you enjoy the burn of the water as it turns your feet a bright red, highlighting the thick layer of freckles there before obscuring them completely with the bright-bright red flush. Meanwhile you lean your head against the cool grey tile and absorb the ambiance of a modern, no doubt super expensive shower. You’ll probably never see anything like this again in your life.

The shower is mostly open to the bathroom, the two glass walls so clear that - if not for the smallest accents and the steam starting to cloud them - you probably wouldn’t even know that they’re there. You can still see the rest of the bathroom from your seat and you’re sure, if Dave walked in, he would see you curled in the corner of the shower and think _what the fuck._

You’re caught between rushing your shower so you can _leave_ and spitefully spending as long as you can stand in here. Which might be pretty long. Depends on how long the hot water lasts. While you decide, you shuffle away from the glass corner to settle deep into the one bordered on either side by tile.

* * *

 

By the time you get out of the shower you’d like to say that you’ve got your shit together, but you really don’t. At the very least you aren’t going to do anything more drastic than usual.

After shutting off the water you linger in front of the mirror for a moment frowning at the blooming hickies on your neck, then at the way your hair falls clean and unstyled. It looks like Dave’s, though… maybe a different shade. And a little longer. Maybe you’re grasping at straws. You set your shades back on the bridge of your nose, pushing them up into proper place so you look more like yourself.

You doodle a dick in the steam on the mirror, taking the time to give it pubes and some disturbingly defined shape before you head back out to the bedroom.

“Yikes. Let me find some rubber-bands to put on your hands.” Dave’s still in the bedroom, sprawled on the couch now with his phone on his chest and some fresh clothes on. His old ones are still strewn around the bed, yours are still on the bed. “Have I told you yet that your shades are hilariously dumb? Like - dude, those are the _opposite_ of incognito.”

“I know. If I cared what people thought about’em, I’d’ve stopped wearin’ ‘em a long time ago.” What’s more stupid is how much better you feel with them on, how much better you feel after pulling on your gloves. You’re still naked, but you don’t feel like it.

“You cool, man?” Dave asks with hardly any inflection to his voice. Right back on to how he is in interviews.

 _Don’t even front._ You want to say.  _Do you even care?_ Dumb. Stupid question. He doesn’t, you know that. Saying any of that’s just gonna make you look desperate. “I’m fine,” you say instead, pulling your shirt over your head and tugging your underwear up your thighs shortly after. Getting to your pants, you pull out your phone and _fuck_ , that is a wall of notifications from Roxy.

You know she’s worried, but that feels good. To know she’s worried.

There’s a pretty long pause before Dave sort of hums. When you glance over he’s looking down at the screen of his phone, scrolling with his thumb.

At least someone actually does. Wonder how long that’ll last.

“Out of curiosity,” you say, and immediately hate yourself for it. Dave looks up a few seconds short of immediately. “What’s my name?”

Dave’s face - what you can see of it - doesn’t change at all. You’re not going to overanalyze the second he takes to answer - at best he’s giving it the good ol’ college try in looking around for that name in his brain. More likely - hello realism - he’s letting you think he is. “I don’t wanna lie, bro, I really don’t know.” He laughs.

For longer than he’s comfortable with - _now_ you can tell - you’re rigid. Then you give him a fluid, easy thumbs-up, two-fingered salute, and you put on your pants. You skirt around the bed as you zip them up. You head out the door.

He doesn’t follow you down the hall or down the first flight of stairs. He doesn’t see you pause to look at a stupid bust in the hall, dressed in a bright pink and bedazzled “Daddy’s Girl” cap and pearls spaced by shitty friendship bracelet beads. He doesn’t stop you from grabbing the hat and sliding it onto your head, doesn’t watch you pause before taking the pearls too. Roxy might like them.

You shove those in your pocket and head down the stairs, pulling the bill of the cap a little further down until the upward slope of your glasses interrupts it.

Yo.

Sorry, I got sort of caught up in this bullshit.

I’m not dead.

I don’t really know what else to say, here.

Roxy doesn’t respond by the time you walk back into familiar territory, by the time you get back to your apartment door, by the time you get inside. The reason why is immediately obvious: a bottle of cheap vodka half-empty on the floor beside the couch, Roxy’s whole tiny body scrunched up in the corner of the couch. By the distinct sharpness of her snoring she’s out pretty hard and probably not too comfortable.

You shut the door slowly, hang your keys by the door and stare for a while, hanging Dave’s hat beside them before approaching the couch. You click the lock button on her phone a few times, concluding that it’s dead and heaving a sigh as you set _your_ phone beside it.

Sluggishly you pull Roxy’s blanket to cover her electric pink toes and grab up the evidence of her own low point around the neck, shuffling into the kitchen and dumping it and all its contents in the trash. You pause to grind a few cockroaches under the toe of your shoe - if only for Roxy’s sake - before returning to her in the living room.

It still surprises you how heavily Roxy sleeps - especially in contrast to yourself. She barely rouses as you work your arms underneath her - blanket and all - and sleeps soundly as you carry her down the hall. Her snoring slows and quiets considerably, her body shifts to lean into yours, but she stays unconscious up ‘til you get her into her bed.

A few of Roxy’s stuffed animals tumble off the bed as you lay her down, and you retrieve them before you start dragging her mass of pink blankets over her. She reaches out for one of the plush cats you replace on her bed, and blearily opens her eyes partway. “Dirk..?” she murmurs, voice muddled. You hum and tuck her blankets around her legs. “What time is it…”

“Around one o’clock.”

She shuffles away from you, toward the wall that separates your rooms. The stuffed animals on her bed are relocated behind her, making space on the bed for you. “I’m gross,” you excuse, plucking your shirt from last night. “Let me go change, first.”

Roxy mumbles indistinctly and you tuck blankets around her before heading next door to your room, stripping and throwing on a tank top and some shorts before you head back. She seems a little more awake, now. “Are you gonna go to work…?”

“Nah,” you crawl into bed next to her, arranging the blankets around you both as she focuses on getting both her legs over your hip. On the rare occasion you submit to it, she likes to cuddle. She’s pretty pushy about it sometimes - usually when she’s drunk. You wonder if that’s a pattern in your life.

Silence hangs in the air between you two for almost a minute, Roxy’s knees hung over your hip and her shoulder pressed against yours. It’s a small bed and there’s really no escaping the scent of alcohol that still clings to her. Maybe you, too; remnants of the shirt you wore for your walk from Beverly Hills to Drive-by Shooting Downtown. Waste of a shower.

“I’m sorry,” she says finally, breaking the silence. “A-a lot happened.”

“... Me too. I didn’t… mean to freak you out. I’m sure it did.”

“Lil’ bit,” Roxy laughs, turning onto her back with a huff and pulling her hair out of your face. “You just… I don't know. I didn’t know what happened for sure, and ya aren’t exactly the _stay out all night_ type. Not havin’ any control over that, like, at all… sucked.”

You echo her earlier quiet for a little while before you clear your throat, startling her to a jump before she quickly resettles and looks at you properly. “You didn’t…” _drive,_ “drink at the club, did you?”

“Nah,” she murmurs, just low enough that you can tell she’s a _little_ offended. “Waited ‘till after I dropped everybody off and came home.”

“So… what happened?”

Shaking her head and shifting back onto her side with this tired look in her eyes as they rake over your face with evident worry, Roxy sighs. “Tell me, first?” Her intonation denotes concerned interest more than being affronted and the subtle difference has you more shocked than you should be. Always more surprised than you expected. “Did he- um. Do… stuff… to you?”

You tuck your arms under your side of the pillow you share, closing your eyes and shrugging. “Yeah, we did some stuff. Doesn’t really matter much.”

Roxy doesn’t seem like she knows what to do with that, for a while; mouth open but silent for nearly a minute before she manages, stutteringly, at a whisper like someone outside of the two of you will hear her. “You… really don’t, um… seem happy? About that? So… did… uh.” She clears her throat. “Did he rape you..?”

Oh.

“No..? He…” you rub your hand down your face. “I was cool with it, I just… don’t know how I feel about it now.”

She doesn’t look reassured by that at all. “If you…” she hesitates again. This is seriously starting to bother you. Usually, she rambles forward without much consideration, only correcting herself (or not correcting herself) later. “Just know that you don’t need to blame yourself, okay? Like. Just ‘cause you might have felt maybe pressured… into consenting… or something…?” Sighing heavily, she wiggles her arms around your torso and buries her face into your shoulder. “I support you and junk, ok? And I’ll always believe you. And anything that might make you feel shitty isn’t your fault.”

Except… getting into some incestuous shit that you were aware of and he _definitely_ isn’t aware of.

“Thanks,” you mumble, wrapping your arms around her and trying to ignore how they shake. “I think…” you stop, considering your words and if you really want to say them. Roxy wants to hear this shit, right? And after screening her last night and shit - she deserves more openness than you usually give her. “I think I’m just. Disappointed. I guess. That there wasn’t… more. Even though I should’ve expected it. And that’s… not really how I wanted things to go. Not like I didn’t want him to fuck me, or whatever-” too fucking weird to say aloud, never doing that again- “but I was. He means. More to me than just a cool one-time sex… thing.”

“Like a… well, more than a celebrity crush sitch?”

“I don’t really wanna get into that, but… kind of. I guess.”

Roxy nods slowly, pulling back and worrying her lip between her teeth. “So, like, speaking of Lalonde stuff… You know Rose Lalonde, too, right?”

“Well, yeah. I’ve read her books and stuff. Why…?”

“She’s…” Roxy heaves a breath, shuffling back against the wall and covering her face with her hands. Her neon-pink nail polish is chipped. Nail-biting strikes again. “This is gonna sound beyond wild, but she’s, like… my mom? There was like that whole teen pregnancy bullshit, back when she was like- you know- sixteen or fifteen, and I got put up for adoption and stuff.” Roxy takes a breath and all you do to interrupt her is reach out to squeeze her shoulder. “So apparently she’s been sort of keeping up with my adoptive parents, and like. Finally found my contact info or something. So she wants to meet me.”

You’re hit by a sweeping wave of jealousy immediately, but before you even go as far as to sniff out the direct source of how you feel about that you shove that shit down and away. Roxy’s peeking at you from between her fingers and looking increasingly upset the longer you stay quiet.

“Sorry to like - fucking sweep your shit under the rug and just take over this conversation, I just- I think I’m still kinda buzzed and I’m super stupid right now-”

“No, chill. Chill out.” You cover her mouth with your palm only long enough to put a stop to her spiraling. “It’s cool. Stop worrying.” You pull your hand fully away, stuffing it under your pillow. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“I…” Roxy reels for a moment before launching back into it. “Obviously, yeah, I would feel super better if you came with me. But I just - I don’t even know if I can go? What’s she going to even think? I’m a _stripper,_ Dirk. I’ve got -” Roxy raises a hand to pull at a curly lock of hair. “I’ve got pink hair and shitty roots that need to get touched up _so_ bad. I’m an alcoholic--!”

“Recovering alcoholic,” you correct.

“I just got schwasted last night.”

“Just ‘cause you fell off the wagon doesn’t mean you’re not still recovering. Messing up once in awhile doesn’t mean you fucked up completely. As long as you’re not planning on giving up entirely.”

Her lip wobbles and she shrugs, looking down at her hands and picking at one of her nails, scraping nail-polish off with her thumb. “I’m trashy.”

You snort loudly. “What, because we live in a shithole that we kind of struggle to pay for and we’re understandably rocking a whole shitton of depression? You realize that rich people are just trashy fuckers that can actually eat what they want and clothe themselves better, right?”

“But she’s _not,_ Dirk, she’s like… actually classy. She’s a published author.”

“She got pregnant at sixteen, she has no room to judge you. Especially for shit that’s absolutely your adoptive parents’ fault.”

Roxy turns over to stuff her face into the pillow. You wiggle your nose to get one of her curls out of your face. “Will you come with me?” she asks into the pillow, whining, muffled by the flat fluff. “It’s Wednesday. At like… ten… we’re going somewhere fancy for brunch. Coffee and stuff…”

You mentally run through the outfits the two of you have and… can understand why she’s concerned.

“Okay,” you say anyway, shrugging. “As long as she’s paying.”

Roxy snorts laughter into the pillow, stuffing her arms under the pillows with yours. You smile and take off your shades, following her lead in nuzzling your face into the pillow beside hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments always super appreciated! C:


	11. half past five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the one where i make bro strider a side character in a bro strider origin story

Back in your hometown you’d see people you recognize all the fuckin’ time. Any given trip to Wal-Mart could be labeled just as well as a high-school reunion. If anything good can be said about where you’re living right now, it’s that at least the people you recognize on the clock aren’t people you went to school with.

Instead you’re in a client’s house with your sword strapped to your back and your old tattooing kit stuffed in a large backpack slung over your shoulder, and the person that you recognize is Derek Straight. You can appreciate his name most of all because you recognize him from gay porn.

Hell, honestly you don’t really know if that’s his real name or just a stage name.

Derek’s doing a line of coke off of your client’s coffee table when you walk in, utilizing what looks like a rolled up hundred dollar bill to do so. He meets your eyes as he sits up, straightens out the bill and flashes it at you. “At least y’know it hasn’t been in a stripper’s thong, right?” he says, snickering and flashing the bottom of the barbell through his tongue as he licks his upper lip, flicking his septum piercing with the tip.

You just know that if Roxy was here - and knew what you know - she’d make fun of you for stealing a pornstar’s image. You didn’t, but you could see how someone would think that. This guy is easily ten - maybe twenty - years older than you, but his face is pierced just as much if not moreso. His hair is the same color and uses just as much product.

The only glaring difference you can catch between the two of you is that his nose looks like it’s been broken once or twice and he’s sporting some really nice facial hair.

And he doesn’t have the same tattoos. Obviously.

“My best friend is a stripper,” you quip when you’re done staring.

“I’d ask if you’re interested in shoving your nose up her bush, but-” he very obviously splays his legs as he leans back, fishing a blunt out of his shirt pocket and winking at you. “The answer t’that’s pretty obvious.”

Derek reaches out to you, crooking his fingers a few times, and says “gimme a light.” It’s not a question, and he looks at you expectantly until you finally slide your lighter into his scarred palm.

“That’s…” you finally say, as he flicks the starter and holds the flame to the end of his roll. He looks up at you over his hand, shielding the flame from the ceiling-fan, and you barely keep from stuttering the adjective: “fair.”

Tossing you back your lighter, Derek inhales deeply and blows out a short, thin stream of smoke. “Good for her,” he shrugs, voice a little rasped like he’s bordering on coughing. “I can respect a lady that takes care of her own shit and doesn’t care’bout the _sanctity_ of her body’s _purity_ or whatever while she does it.” He used one hand to emphasize his words with poorly timed quotation marks and lifts his feet up onto the table, crossing them at the ankle.

“Obviously.”

Rather than getting offended, he just winks at you again.

“You got a phone, twerp?” he asks, patting the chipped leather of the couch he sits on. “Come’ere.”

You don’t move for verging on a minute, squinting at him behind your shades. He doesn’t get impatient, doesn’t prompt you further with anything more than a quirked eyebrow as he sits still and smokes his blunt cooly. Eventually you move, sitting beside him, and stiffen under his arm as it shift from the back of the couch to sit around your shoulders. “Take a pull,” he instructs, handing you his blunt and pulling his phone out of his pocket.

As ordered, you take a hit from the blunt and watch him closely as he pulls open his contacts and clicks a little “add contact” tab, dropping his phone into your lap unceremoniously. “Number,” he says in what you’re quickly coming to learn is his _do it_ voice. And then he reaches into your pocket, filching out your phone. “What’s y’r passcode?”

“Uh…?” you choke out, brows furrowed, tone (you think) clearly saying _what the fuck._

“I’m a porn star,” he says flatly, unimpressed, brow raised at you in return. This close, you can see that his eyes are the same more-gold-than-brown color as yours. Only difference is that they’re brighter in color and still somehow feel more dark. “What’re you afraid of? Me seein’ some bestiality shit in your internet browser? Me findin’ your nudes? What - is your social your wallpaper? Don’t be a little bitch, privacy doesn’t exist. Give me your passcode.”

“It… It’s 7825.”

Snickering, he taps in the numbers and shakes his head. “ _Suck_ ,” he chuckles, raising the hand thrown over your shoulder to pinch your cheek and pat it condescendingly. “You’re cute, kid. Real cute.”

You hate blushing so fucking much. You lean away from him and grunt, looking down at his phone in your lap and tentatively entering in your name and your number. Out of the corner of your eye you watch him do the same, lazy and one-handed, before passing your phone back and taking the blunt from between your fingers.

Dropping his phone back in his lap, you look down at the contact he created.

_Daddy D._

Fuck this guy.

A rattle of angry spanish interrupts you two and nearly has you dropping your phone, your client entering through a door bridging the duplex he’d overtaken. In a snap he flows from spanish to english between sentences, just as angry if not more so as he waves a hand sweepingly at the two of you on his couch. “Stop poaching every person that comes through the door! He doesn’t want your dirty cowboy dick!”

“Au contraire,” Derek says plainly, shifting his fingers to get a better grip on the blunt without burning himself as he takes the last few drags that he can.

“Out!” Carles demands, then seems to reconsider as Derek pulls himself to his feet. Fuck, he’s tall. Ridiculously tall. Still the considerably shorter man stands between him and the door, palm open expectantly. “Pay me for your shit _and then_ get out.”

Derek clicks his tongue, stubbing his blunt out in an ashtray on the table and reaching into his back pocket for a his wallet. “Got me again, _hombre._ I’ll pull one over on you one’a these days.”

“You already have, you greedy horse fucker,” Carles’s voice reduces to grumbles as he counts out bills, nose scrunched up tight as he shifts out of the way to let Derek pass. “Get the fuck out of here before I move away from you again and -” his mumbling reduces down to the point where it’s inaudible and Derek is long gone anyway.

The two of you end up exchanging Derek’s money back and forth. First he pays for his session, then you hand some of that back in return for an ounce of weed, then you realize you really have no business smoking a whole ounce of weed much less paying more than half of your commission for it. You come away with a half instead, and another appointment in place to color his tattoo.

* * *

 

Tuesday morning you wake earlier than typical to your phone ringing incessantly on the box that serves as your nightstand. Slower than usual you wake with your hand heavily outstretched for it, thumbing clumsily to answer. “What?” you grate, with a second glance at the time. Fuck, nearly an hour earlier than usual.

Roxy laughs across the line at you, a low beat barely audible in the background. Her voice is more cutting than usual in her sharp consonants when she speaks - “Sorry! Sorry, I know it’s early,” her giggling sobers to her typical voice and the difference makes you more alert, has you sitting up and rubbing your bare eyes clear. “I just wanted to warn you that I already took the night off, and instead of coming right home, I want to go shopping. I-”

There’s a break where she pulls away from the phone, the crackle of the speaker against her hair and muffled talking in the background. You stand, yourself, and keep the phone pinned to your ear as you strip and unroot clothes from the laundry basket. Just as you hike your underwear up over your hips, Roxy’s voice pierces your eardrum again. “I borrowed Nessa’s car and I’m gonna drop her off before I come pick you up.”

“A’right.” You tug your shirt over your head and pull the phone away from your ear to slide your glasses into place. “I’m ready when you are.”

She picks you up half an hour later in a mint green volkswagen and you frown when she hands you the _Daddy’s Girl_ cap you nicked from the _Lalonde_ Estate. “Your hair looks _terrible_ ,” she tells you as you start trying to desperately tease your fingers through it with the aid of the cosmetic mirror. Nudging your shades up the bridge of your nose, you cast her an involuntary glance and wait a while before pulling the cap over your head.

She smirks anyway. Better than the giggle you were expecting, but still a little painful. Hunching in your seat, you try to push your bad mood off.

It lingers as the two of you pull into the parking lot of the nearest mall, even through your startled casing of the building’s exterior. Roxy’s been working tirelessly since she told you about her birth mother. As far as you know it’s been keeping her sober and out of trouble, so you had few complaints with her working a little overtime, but…

She parks. She grabs up her heels and works them onto her previously bare feet before shrugging her purse onto her shoulder while you’re left debating whether or not you should say something.

You don’t. Instead you follow her into the mall and trail behind her as she looks at signs and windows and lingers far too long in front of… daunting stores. Usually you’re not so quiet, but the limited space and the crowds don’t help a bit. You keep your hands stuffed deep into your pockets and stay a few steps back behind Roxy as she finally makes her way into a department store.

At least it isn’t small. Cramped and forcing your body up against some stranger’s.

“Are, uh…” you clear your throat halfway up the escalator, Roxy looking back from where she stands one step up from you. “What’re we getting?”

“Nice pants,” she starts, for the first time sounding a little daunted as they get up to the top floor, stepping off. Roxy leads you in one set direction, but you’re not so sure she knows where she’s going, either. “I’m thinking, maybe… a sweater? A blouse? Something -”

“Nice,” you finish, pulling a hand from your pocket to look through a rack of sheer tops.

You wonder how differently Dave would’ve thought of you if you weren’t wearing pants stained with ink, a shirt full of holes. Did you look like some low-end, underaged prostitute he could get away with sleeping with for free?

Even right here in front of you, and with _technically_ enough money in your pockets, new clothes looks like a hopeless effort. A possibility only through the lens of desperation. You grunt and stride to catch up with Roxy, quick with your eyes turned down.

When you imagine Roxy shopping for clothes, it’s with quick grabbing hands that gather choices on a whim. Instead she spends… a long time browsing. Picking through clothes, lingering with eyes long fixated until she passes each up. Some things she never comes back to and some the two of you revisit numerous times. For a while you just watch her move from rack to rack, circle the area and then the floor looking through clothes. Both of you wordless.

“Yellow would be good,” you say eventually with Roxy’s fingers curled in the hem of a sheer yellow blouse with a subtle pattern. “Just color theory. Yellow highlights pink really well. And white pants would be really… classy. Wouldn’t make you look like a bumble-bee.”

Roxy’s hand lingers, then plucks the hanger from the rack with a tight smile in your direction. “Dirk-”

“You’re welcome,” you say quickly, eyes turned downward and away. “Let’s go find y’some pants and a dressing room.”

* * *

 

That night Nessa comes to pick her car up from your complex and stays a while. The three of you pass around your pipe while she and Roxy chat. You keep to yourself for the most part, one of Roxy’s feet on your thighs and a polish-wet brush between your fingers. Roxy has a few different colors, but she rarely strays from the bright pink that matches her hair.

When the three of you are decently toasted Roxy has you go back to your shared bathroom to fetch her other colors and she paints Nessa’s nails herself in rich dark greens and purpley-reds. You busy yourself with a nail-file at your own hands between hits, examining their manicured curve with fluttering worry and entertain chewing them up before the morning.

* * *

 

“If we get stood up, think we’ll get charged for the water?” you murmur aside to Roxy a few minutes after you’ve sat down and started looking through the menu. She looks back at you, shoulders hunched to her neck and fingers clutching at the menu.

“Don’t say that,” she whispers, shifting in her seat and looking nervously to the door.

“Sorry,” you mumble lower, under your breath and then some as you page through lists of dishes you can’t place as French, Italian, or otherwise European they’re so authentic. You can tell it certainly isn’t tex-mex, at least.

You’re more out of your element here than Roxy is. She, at least, has experienced this kind of stuff at one point. Back with her adoptive parents she might’ve gone to a place like this… what, once a month? Once every few months? You feel like every eye in here is on you.

??: hey  
??: hey bro  
??: hey punky twink kid

You unbury your phone from your pocket and frown down at the messages quickly incoming, startling and dropping your menu as Roxy shoots up at your side. Stuffing your phone back in your pocket you look to where she looks and see Rose Lalonde staring at the two of you from a few tables down.

Her hair comes only down near her shoulders, straight and curling only at the very ends as opposed to the crimped waves of Roxy’s hair. It’s the same color as Roxy’s roots, but so organized that the strands falling out of place are obvious. Rose’s fingers brush her hair back where it belongs before dropping down to straighten her soft grey dress.

“Roxanne,” she addresses as she comes closer with measured steps. You’d imagined heels - maybe short ones, but heels nonetheless - but Roxy’s mother wears flats instead. She’s short. Shorter than you, maybe shorter than Roxy, maybe the same height.

“Just Roxy,” Roxy corrects, sounding like her heart is caught in her throat. Your phone buzzes incessantly in your pocket. “This is- this is my friend,” she’s gesturing to you, now, and your shoulders involuntarily stiffen as Rose’s sharp eyes settle on you. “Dirk.”

You extend an ungloved hand, keeping your bare eyes fixed on Rose despite yourself. “Dirk Strider,” you introduce yourself properly because as much as Roxy’s put into her appearance you better not ruin it.

“Dirk Strider,” she echoes, laying her hand in yours. She’s contemplatively silent for a number of seconds before squeezing your fingers and drawing back. “Rose Lalonde. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She looks to Roxy, then, taking a breath and sliding slow into one of the two seats across from you both. “Both of you.”

You and Roxy sit as well, Roxy’s eyes on Rose with shameless fixation as she smiles at the waitress that brings her a menu. You take the opportunity to pull your phone from your pocket, if only to turn off the notifications numbing your thigh.

??: you should come over dude  
??: or yknow i could send a taxi or whatever  
??: now that i think about it it was kind of a dick move not to like call you a car or anything  
??: sorry about that  
??: also sorry for kinda forgetting your name and stuff i was pretty fucked up  
??: pretty awkward too to ask that kind of thing after how you woke me up haha  
??: or like right before i asked you to leave etc

Ah. It’s… Dave.

“How did you two meet, if I may ask?”

You snap your eyes back up and try to gloss over the second you hesitate to put your phone on _do not disturb._ Priorities, priorities. You shove your phone into your pocket and cast a glance aside at Roxy.

You don’t remember the last time you pretended to he something other than… than what you are.

“Um… I needed a room-mate, ‘cause everyone on-” she laughs, her face is flushed, she’s embarrassed. “This end of the, uh… ‘Cause everyone needs to, these days, to improve shhhhtuff.”

Your jaw sets.

( _You’re good at doing what you have to._ )

“Neither of us had many options, so we started sharing an apartment,” you explain, “we mesh well together. It was really supposed to be more of an arrangement of convenience, but it was surprisingly easy to fall into being friends.”

“Yeah,” Roxy agrees, her voice laced with a nervous giggle as she turns her eyes down to her menu, nail scratching along the soft leather cover of the little book. “Yeah, that’s a pretty good, um… summation.”

“I see,” Rose says slowly. Her own menu is laid open on the table in front of her, but Rose doesn’t seem too interested in browsing it. Mostly, you think, it’s for show. “So, Dirk, are you twenty years old as well?”

You’d be more bothered by her concentration on you if not for the bitterness flooding you to realize Rose remembers - and uses - your name more than Dave ever attempted to. She’s known you for all of ten minutes and made more of an attempt than Dave did. Roxy, too. Asking about her living situation, the person she chose to bring with her. Dave didn’t care about who you were texting before, didn’t care who was worried about you.

“Yes, ma’am,” you say once you pull yourself together enough to speak without the venom in your chest spilling out your mouth.

“Ma’am?” she echoes, smiling and shaking her head. “I’m admittedly compelled to thank you, as absurd as that is. We, I think, would have plenty to speak about.” She turns her smile on Roxy, then, her eyes flicking from Roxy to you and back again - as if you distract her attention from where she _wants_ it to be. “I… would like to apologize to you, Roxy, first of all. I’m sure that you understand the decision I made regarding you, and I cannot say that I regretted it, but it’s taken me an unnecessarily long time to contact you following your… parents’ actions toward you.”

“It’s…” _cool,_ you predict, “alright. I didn’t know that you were keeping tabs on me, anyway? I’m just really glad that you decided to.”

Roxy and Rose lapse into a small conversation that you keep half an ear on and don’t insert yourself into. Rose’s attention focuses entirely on Roxy now, her chin supported by her palm as she listens to her, as she talks to her.

The wonder and adoration on her face makes your stomach cramp and your chest tight. You don’t want to talk to Dave right now. That’s possibly the best thing for you at the moment. But you end up pulling your phone out of your pocket anyway with the excuse that you’ll just save his contact info.

It doesn’t last two seconds.

TT: I’m kinda busy right now.

Your fingers shake.

TT: Maybe after 9.

TG: uuuuuugh

TG: sure ok but you cant stay over or anything like youve gotta be out by liiiike 4am tops

TG: ive got stuff goin on

Probably relating to Rose being in town. You don’t know as much about her as you do about Dave, but you know her primary residence is in New York.

TT: Sure. Whatever.

You’re a little startled by the waitress’s arrival, pen poised neatly over pad as she asks if you three are ready to order. Rose nods, folding her menu shut. “I am, certainly, if you two are.”

Roxy, immediately, is nodding her agreement - and then all eyes are on you. You go rigid, shoving your phone between your thighs and nodding once. “Sure. Yes.”

Sitting up straighter, Rose speaks her order clean and clear with the proper title on the menu - something that sounds more like French when you hear it. You think she orders a meal - you couldn’t say what kind - and a glass of wine.

Roxy is shaking a little, which is reassuring, but stacks her menu on top of Rose’s and orders for herself a little more brokenly, but just as surely. The waiter looks at you—

“I’ll have the same as her,” you say with a nod toward Roxy, trying to be as casual as possible in this. Yeah, you totally want… whatever it is… that she just got. Sounds fantastic, was totally on your mind before the waitress even _got_ here.

Your fingers fumble a little on their way to stacking your menu on top and - your chest hurts. Your throat tightens up. You shift your hands to worm under your thighs and look outside the window beside your table.

“Dirk,” Rose says your name evenly and you look back to her and Roxy. Roxy looks relaxed, now, if not still just a little bit nervous. She looks happy.

“Yes?” you answer a few seconds late when you finally look fully to Rose. She looks about the same as Roxy. Relaxed but vaguely nervous, happy.

“I’m interested in your background,” at least she’s forward. “You look to be a very interesting man. You’re from the south, are you not? Given your accent.”

“Wouldn’t say I’m that interesting. But yeah. I am. Texas. Houston area.”

Rose’s eyes narrow slightly and she nods, crossing her arms on the table. “I see. And what brings you to Los Angeles?”

“Texas is…” a shithole, “not accommodating for what I want.”

“And what, pray tell…?”

“T’not live across the street from some confederate flag-toting asshole.”

Rose lofts an eyebrow, taking a breath and folding her hands on the table in front of her. She looks up, murmurs a _thank you_ when her wine is delivered before turning her eyes back to you. “I cannot fault you that,” she huffs softly in what might be a laugh. “What is it you do now?”

Looking aside to Roxy, you answer slowly - tugging at the long sleeves of your shirt. Uncomfortable, but properly covering. “... I’m a tattoo artist. Sometimes a piercer.”

“You’ve taken out all of your jewelry,” Rose sips from her wine glass, eyes raking over your covered torso and lingering near your neck. “And you’ve covered most of your tattoos.”

“... Roxy means a lot to me,” you look aside to see her look down at the table, biting her lip you think to stifle a smile. Before Rose follows your eyes you look back to her.

“You don’t seem the sort of man to care about the opinions of others. Much less someone that you’ve never met before.”

“I don’t,” you look pointedly around the establishment that you two had been brought to. Less to _look_ and more to _emphasize._ “I care about Roxy. This ain’t about me, this ain’t about what y’think of me, this ain’t about _my_ image. It’s about Roxy’s.”

Rose studies you silently, a twitch at the corner of her lips. Her eyes shift briefly to Roxy, looking over her, before they return to you. “You’re a good friend, Mr. Strider. It’s reassuring to me that my daughter has one such as you.”

“Let’s hope you prove that I can say the same in return.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that no edit life cause i dont wanna edit things guys sorry ):


	12. do whatever gets you seen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not gonna put this in the tags or anything, but, brief content warning for this chapter: one instance of the f-slur, if that bothers you.

“He texted me.”

“Dave did?” Roxy asks as the two of you roll into your parking spot at the complex. You’d already tugged your sleeves as far as they’ll go up your arms - you’re sweating so fucking bad. This is gross.

“Yeah. It was like…” you sigh, pulling your phone from your pocket as Roxy slips off your bike. “Here, just look.”

Roxy squints as she reads, shifting out of the sunlight below one of the hole-ridden awnings out front the building. “He booty-called you,” Roxy clarifies, heaving a sigh as she scrolls down to the bottom. “And you said yes?”

“I…” you heave a sigh and tuck your keys into your pocket. “If I don’t, I’ll probably never see him again.”

“That’s not really a great reason to have sex with someone.”

You grunt. 

“Do you  _ want _ to?”

“... It wasn’t bad.”

This time Roxy grunts. “You’re not  _ lucky, _ you know, that he texted you. You aren’t like - graced with his presence or anything. If anything,  _ he _ is.”

“I don’t know about that,” you murmur, taking your phone back as she unlocks the apartment door.

* * *

 

TG: send me your address and ill hook you up with a ride

TT: I could just fucking drive there. It’s not like I don't know where it is.

TG: whaaat what kind of dude would i be if i didnt hook my bro up with a sweet escort straight to flavor town

TT: A dude I don’t want to have my address because he references Guy Fieri in a euphemism for me sucking his dick.

TG: i mean that couldve been anything

TT: I’m driving there myself.

TG: sure whatever its your funeral

TT: Well, we could just meet at a hotel like normal dudes sneaking around about where they put their dicks.

TG: what have i ever done to give you the impression that im normal i need to immediately rectify this misunderstanding

TT: Fuck you.

TG: maybe if youre lucky B;)

TT: Ugh.

TG: you love it

TT: Whatever. Stop trying to wine and dine me. You know the paparazzi’s either going to throw out some headline about you being a fag or they’ll Kristen Stewart you. That’s the only reason you feel so safe inviting me over to your place, anyway.

TT: That, and you seriously don’t care whether or not I steal your shit ‘cause you want me and everyone else to know you don’t give a shit about all your glorious material acquisitions. 

TG: those were my sisters pearls actually and i stole that hat from ryan reynolds 

TG: the beads were mine though and believe me im furious

TT: Mmhm. I’m driving myself over there.

TG: aright works for me 

TG: do i get to fuck you without a condom again

TT: 凸(｀⌒´メ)凸

TG: get this weeb shit away from me man lmao

* * *

 

“Nice bike,” Dave says from the doorway, eyeing it up where it’s parked behind a sleek dark purple car you don’t recognize. “It really ties your whole image together.”

“Yeah,” you grunt, looking back. You’re sure he’s seen better. It’s definitely not a genuine compliment, and that sours deep in your stomach.

“C’mon,” he coaxes, grabbing you by the wrist and urging you through the door. “You said no wine and dine, right? So let’s just get down to business.” He grins at you, mischievous and still somehow sweet looking even with his glasses on. Quickly he sweeps you toward the stairs with his arm around your shoulders. Despite yourself, you’re a little giddy. It was good, before, and as much as you’ve thought about it you haven’t done anything since. You’re pent up, frisky in spite of your emotional turmoil. 

“Honestly, man-”

“Dirk,” you interrupt, eyes shifting to set themselves on the polished floors rather than anywhere near whatever his reaction might be. “If we’re going t’be doing this more than once you might as well actually know. So fucking remember it this time if you want-” want what?  _ Hah, _ to see you more than this? Like you can keep yourself away. Like you wouldn’t come crawling back anyway even if he didn’t know your fucking name. And he knows that, too. He knows you’re desperate. Knows you’re desperate for him. Knows you wouldn’t  _ be able  _ to refuse. “... Anything, from me. It’s not even fucking  _ polite _ , it’s just a matter of being fucking decent.”

Does Dave have a reputation for decency? Absolutely not.

“... Dirk,” he says slowly. Your heart flutters first with the sheer weight of hearing  _ your _ name.  _ You _ . Fall from his lips for the first time. Then drops when you recognize the tone of it. Hesitant, corrective. Slower, more deliberate, sober. 

“Mhm,” is all you hum. That could mean anything, the way he said that.

At the top of the first flight of stairs he urges you left into a hallway, then left  _ down _ that hallway until the two of you meet a large glass door that stretches from floor to high ceiling. “Honestly, Dirk,” he restarts, more chipper, pushing the door open, “I’ve been thinking about seeing you  _ tons _ since you left - what day was that? Friday? Thursday? Damn, I don’t even know.” 

You try not to hold your breath but find yourself doing it anyway, looking up as Dave closes and locks the door before guiding you through a gaudily red gold and black room. It’s huge. Bigger, you think, than your trailer was. Much bigger, actually. He’s got a miniature living room opposite his bed - complete with a TV, couch, chairs, game system (it looks like) -

You don’t get much time to appreciate it before Dave pushes you onto the bed - flat on your back. You land with a huff, limbs sprawled and tense. God - you’re not used to being man-handled and your knee-jerk impulse is to  _ fight _ him. It only manifests in a tensing of your limbs before you force yourself slack.

The bed has a mirror above it, glowing gold at the edges in either shining metal or an actual light. From here, you can’t actually tell. All you can  _ really _ tell is that you can see the whoooole bed from here. And even off some of the sides.

_ Wow. _ Alright. That’s… a lot. 

“I’ve thought  _ a lot _ about how I want to fuck you.”

That brings your attention back in a snap, throat struggling to work for  _ much _ longer than you’d prefer before you manage to choke out: “ _ Is that so? _ ” seconds before Dave starts on talking again with no heed to your words.

“I wanna see you ride me,” he says, less assertive and more  _ kid with a toy.  _ Dave’s arms bracket your head, one on either side and Dave’s hips  _ already _ working in tight, sharp little rolls. You can’t feel his cock, yet, and you expect that he’s slipped into this mental space long before his body’s caught up. “I wanna watch you try and work your hips,” he smirks, a laugh under his words, “with your little virgin stamina. See how long you can keep up, how well you can move your ass.”

“You get off on inexperience?”

“Everyone does,” Dave rolls his eyes. “You realize how many fucking movie and book and TV scenes are  _ all _ centered around virginity? It may be all that fuckin’ dated, period-set shit, but people eat it  _ up. _ And the reason why isn’t  _ historical accuracy _ or  _ purity themes _ or whatever, it’s all because people like to fuck virgins. It’s hot when no one’s touched somebody but you.”

In a flash you curl your legs around Dave’s hips and flip them over, holding Dave’s shoulders down with your palms and shifting your legs out from under him. Dave wrinkles up his face for a brief moment, twists and stretches his body before relaxing with your legs newly moved to border his thighs. “Pardon me,” you say dryly, “guess I should’a gnawed on your cock more when it was in my mouth.”

“Gotta draw the line somewhere.”

Stripping off your shirt and casting it aside, you pull at the fly of your pants and begin the awkward dance of trying to get your pants off while A, something is between them and B, your weight is primarily braced on your knees. 

Dave on the other hand just crosses his arms behind his head. “Should toooootally have you suck me off again first,” he says, like he’s advising himself and not making a  _ very _ poorly veiled suggestion. About as veiled, really, an elephant with a fucking pillowcase. Except something less euphemistically flattering to Dave.

“Nah,” you say, reaching out to grab a fistful of Dave’s hair in one hand, reaching toward the bedside table to snatch the painfully in-sight bottle of lube there with the other. Moving your legs around Dave’s torso, up his sides and then over his arms, you straddle his head and shove the bottle of lube into one of his hands. “You’re gonna suck me off and you’re gonna stretch me.”

Stripping Dave’s shades from him with the hand not holding his head in place, you’re able to fully enjoy the pure shock on his features before he schools them. Poorly. Much worse without his glasses. “You,” he tries to laugh smoothly but just sounds nervous, “are a  _ shit _ virgin.”

“The secret,” you say, folding his shades and setting them on the nightstand, following them with yours. “Is that every  _ virgin _ is just another frustrated boy that spends too much time watching porn and jerking off.” Your cock is lifted to drag along Dave’s lip, over his chin. “And some’a’em were just born with bigger balls than you.”

“You little fuck,” Dave gasps, and is promptly rewarded with your dick pushing into his mouth, sliding along his tongue.

“Yeah,” you agree, sighing the words back and pulling Dave’s hair where your hand fists tightly into it. Dave’s got a nice tongue; moving surely and smoothly along your length while his cheeks hollow with his sucking. You hear the  _ snap _ behind you as Dave pops the cap of the lube bottle, and by the time you hear the cap click closed you’re shaking.

Dave’s eyes fix up on you, way more expressive than the rest of his face, and  _ God, _ this was a great idea. So good. You pull his hair just to see his eyes twitch in a wince, narrow with irritation, and then you roll your hips down to sink your cock deeper into his mouth.

Dry fingers roughly pinch your ass-cheek and you jerk your hips forward again just to escape the sudden, sharp stimulus. Dave  _ moans _ around you.

“God,” you gasp, the hand in his hair easing and then tightening all over again at the playfully amused glint in Dave’s eye.  _ Just another virgin _ , he’s thinking,  _ gonna blow his load any second. _ You can read it on his face. You can  _ tell. _ “I hate you,” you grunt, wrinkling your own nose up and barely restraining the twitch of your hips this time as Dave’s fingers rub up against your hole, slick with lube.

You let Dave pull back, growling to yourself as he pushes you back with a hand on the hip and sucks you all the way up to the tip. “No you don’t,” he laughs, dragging his flattened tongue over the head of your cock and delighting either in the way it jumps against his tongue, or the way your face floods with heat. “You’re  _ obsessed _ with me.”

“Fuck you,” you gasp without any heat, a shiver of anxiety dropping and curling in your stomach with those words- you are. You  _ are _ and you always  _ have _ been and he  _ knows. _

Dave pushes you off and rolls over on top of you, pressing a finger boldly inside of you without hesitation as he wraps his lips around your cock and dips  _ low.  _ There’s a distinctive  _ smack _ as you cover your mouth with your palm, dipping two of your fingers low for your teeth to sink into. 

“ _ Dave, _ ” you gasp around them, completely unable to control the noise punched out of you as he shoves your thighs wide apart and slides his finger deep into you. It doesn’t sit a moment before it’s drawing back out, slamming back in. Dave’s mouth works around you in a mind-blurring way, quick but efficient with his tongue curling and pressing in all the right places. His lips draw together when he comes back up to the tip, tongue gliding through the slit —

You pull a pillow over your face, crossing both arms over it both to shield your hot face from the air and his sight. To hold in the sounds that you  _ can’t _ prevent.

You’re dying— he’s adding a second finger into you and only moving faster and harder, you’re  _ dying _ . This is how you go.

The pillow is pulled from your face and thrown away from the two of you. Dave’s face is hovering over yours and you don’t even  _ know _ when he took his mouth off your cock but now it’s drooling against your stomach and you’re sorely, suddenly aware of how much it needs attention. 

“Don’t hide,” he orders, biting his own red lips and pulling your hair back from your face with his free hand while the other rocks into you over and over- “Moan for me. Scream. Show me your face… I wanna see.”

In response you grunt, look away from him and twist up your brows at the way your face only heats further under his scrutiny. Chuckling, he presses his face into the crook of your neck, sucks at the base of your throat, and his hand slides down your side…

Dave’s arm loops around your waist and he tugs you on top of him as he rolls back onto his back. His hands both spread your asscheeks apart, squeezing and kneading them. “Can I fuck you bareback?”

Slowly you nod - unable to speak - and he reaches between you to guide the head of his cock against your hole. Bracing your hands on his thighs, you spread your legs wider and sink down with shaky hips. A smirk plays at the corner of his mouth and you narrow your eyes, gasping: “Don’t fucking say it.”

“ _ Viiirgin, _ ” he coos, yelping and whining when you pinch his thigh.

He forgets about it almost immediately - you can tell, you can see - when you sit back on his cock and rock your hips slow and unsteady. “ _ Yeaaaah _ , fuck…” he moans, tipping his head back against the pillows and rolling his hips back up against yours. He clutches your hips hard in his broad hands, rubs your skin with his thumbs.

* * *

 

“Where’re you goin’?”

Stretching your sore hips on the way, you slip off the edge of the bed and roll your shoulders, looking back at your brother as you pull your muscles back into shape. “Y’said I had t’be out by four, yeah? M’gettin’ out.” 

Dave blinks at you slowly, sprawled over the pillows and looking back at you with twisted brows. “It’s only-” he reaches for his phone, glances at the time before looking back. “- Midnight. You’ve got four hours.”

_ Last time I overstayed my welcome it was pretty devastating.  _ “I prefer t’leave of my own volition, rather than bein’ kicked out.” Didn’t come out much better aloud. Oops.

“Yeah,” he shrugs, seemingly unaffected. Your heart twists and another layer of metal forms under your skin. “That’s fair. You can hang around longer, if you want.” His eyes drop, sweeping over your unsteady legs and then up over your chest. Ah, yes. Your only assets. 

Wordlessly you turn toward the short hall back into the rest of the room - the bathroom. You feel like you should rinse off, scrub yourself clean, but you also  _ don’t want to. _ You feel disgusting, but part of you wants to cherish it.

“Dirk.”

Everything about you stops. Your brain stops, your breathing stops, your feet stop. The only thing that doesn’t is your hammering heart, which speeds impossibly. You’ll collapse, you’ll give. “Dave,” you say back to him, over your shoulder, surprisingly and disturbingly even. 

“Come back to bed, dude. Just for, like… a few minutes.”

Your feet turn without your permission and there he is on the bed still, arms open to you lazily. If you reject him, no doubt he could give less of a fuck. Shrug it off, move on.

But he’s reaching for you.

The bed gives under you but doesn’t creak, sinks beneath your weight with his as you crawl into his arms. They wrap around you. They wrap around you so nicely, snugly, warm… warm…

Burying your face in his shoulder, you curl your arms around him in return and sigh against his collarbone. You ignore the way he laughs back; light and full of air - in one ear and out the other without incident, for once.

You love him. Love his warmth.

* * *

 

When you wake up the sky is just starting to lighten outside, a sliver of it seen beyond the floor-to-ceiling curtains. Dave’s arms are tight around your waist and his face is pressed into your hair. Some of his drool is dribbling down the side of your forehead. Gross.

You don’t really have it in you to be that upset about it.

Pushing the blankets off yourself, you stretch up to kiss Dave’s cheek as you untangle yourself from his arms and pull away. Dave whines, digs his nails into your sides and slowly opens his eyes, making a little questioning sound.

“I’m leaving,” you say, pulling back further and feeling Dave’s nails raise white lines against your skin.

“Stay a little longer…” he murmurs, reaching for you-

“No. It’s past four,” you think, at least. Gotta be. “I’ve got shit to do.” You pull out of his reach and scoot to the edge of the bed, standing and stretching out your back. Your thighs ache and shake, but you gather up your clothes.

When you turn back Dave is watching you tiredly from the pillows, frowning as you pick your glasses and your gloves off of the nightstand, setting your shades on your nose and tugging on your gloves. “I’ll see ya,” he slurs, clearly still sleepy but struggling to keep his eyes open.

“Yeah. Probably.”

You turn to leave, pulling your shirt into proper place and making sure your wallet and keys are in place in your pockets.

“Bye, Dirk,” he calls after you. Your steps stutter.

“Bye, Dave."


	13. so could you tell me how you're sleeping easy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: derek is just as fucked up as dirk if not moreso, dirk is more fucked up than we thought, there are text conversations
> 
> also here's your dose of dirk<>roxy

“So, what’s your problem.”

“Seems like a rude thing t’ask.”

“Y’don’t give a shit about _rude,_ don’t try’n fuckin’ play.”

Derek Straight sits beside you in a grimy bar with a tall glass of beer in his hand, halfway empty already. He’d wrangled you out for lunch and this is the closest thing to a _date_ you’ve been on. Except for the very small factor that he told you when you sat down _I’ll pay for your food ‘cause you’re a fuckin’ runt I wanna talk to, but don’t get any romantic expectations._

So it’s not a date. It’s more like going out with your stepdad that kinda wants to fuck you.

And that you kinda wanna fuck too.

The thing about losing your virginity is that, even if you weren’t exactly _sexually innocent,_ a whole lotta doors in your mind open up. You start realistically being able to think: _wow, I could have that guy’s dick in my ass._

Or something like that.

“Y’can’t hide how fucked up you are from people that’re equally fucked up.”

“Yeah, you can.”

Derek glares aside at you weakly. Threatening but without any motivation behind it. “Well y’can’t hide it from me, smartass, so what’s your fucking issue. We need to get all our shit on the table before I can get in your pants proper.”

“Seems like a very romantically inclined way of going about things. You don’t kiss on the first date?”

“ _Thing is,_ ” Derek says relatively loudly now, “I don’t want to pay for a shitty room just to fuck you in it and I’m not taking crazy anywhere near where I live. _And_ I learned a long time ago that it’s rarely convenient to fuck someone in _their_ house.”

“Plus it’s a power thing.”

Squinting at you from over his glass, Derek takes a long drink and sets it back down before he affirms: “Plus, it’s a power thing.”

The two of you stare at each other for a while.

“You know what game show would be really good for you? Baggage.”

“It’s a good concept,” Derek looks forward again, eyes fixing up on one of the monitors playing a soccer match. “I’d want t’know if whoever I was hookin’ up with pushed her ex’s car off a cliff.”

“Or his.”

“Worst thing a guy’s ever revealed on that show is that he used to be a stripper, collects panties, or still has an ex’s number or some’in.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

“So let’s play,” Derek says with finality, bringing the glass to his lips and chugging down the rest of his beer. He wipes his lips on his wrist. “There’s a park down the street. We’ll walk off my buzz.”

The two of you finish off the fries between you before walking out to the back of the bar where a few middle-aged women are arguing under a patio umbrella. Out the back gate you walk along a back alley, cross the street, and find yourself in the parking lot of a community park. It’s large enough to give the two of you privacy while a couple dozen other people walk around.

“I’ve put thirty-nine separate people in the hospital.” Not the best starter when you’re walking back toward a treeline along an evidently rarely used bike path. You look up at Derek, frowning, and he just blinks back at you expectantly.

“... Explanation?”

“We each do one, then explain.”

Scuffing your feet in the dirt, you clear your throat and shrug. “I had a hand in killing my dad.”

Derek seems satisfied with that, interested even like you’re explaining the plot of the last Game of Thrones episode rather than admitting to maybe-murder. He leads the way down the bike path until it comes to a bridge over a small stream and sits at the edge, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offering one to you. You take it. “Mostly I’ve stabbed a lot of people. Or beat them half to death in a fist fight. Stuff gets rough around here, and back where I’m from too. It’s all been necessary, dependin’ on what your definition of _necessary_ is.”

You light up your cigarette and watch him light his, taking a deep drag and holding it as you consider his explanation. Ultimately you can’t say shit to it, just shrug and nod as you let the smoke out in a stream. “My dad had real bad blood pressure issues. I interfered with him getting his medication a lot, either getting into the pharmacy’s computer system or stealing and selling the meds. On top of that I controlled his diet a lot and just had it get as shitty for him as possible. I didn’t call an ambulance for’im ‘til I knew there was nothin’ they could do.” A pause, you swing your legs slowly over the edge of the bridge. “He was shitty and the financial drain from his habits and his care wasn’t worth his life.”

Derek whistles low, ashing his cigarette into the water before taking another long pull off of it. He holds it in for a while, and you _think_ he might be contemplating what he wants to say but you can’t be sure.

“That’s fucked up,” he says finally, but sounds decidedly unaffected as he does. Maybe even appreciative. “I’ve probably got a few bastards out there, but I move and change my name so often I’ll probably never know any of’em.”

“Ah.” You stay, eyeing Derek over in consideration before looking back down to the water under them. “I, uh… I moved here from Houston to meet Dave Lalonde. The celebrity. I’ve been fixated on him for a… long time. ‘Bout ten years.”

Peeking over at Derek, you see him staring at you with both arms slung over the midbar of the bridge’s railing. After giving you a thorough look over, he flicks the butt of his cigarette into the water. “Fucked a lot of teenage girls that ain’t give a shit about protection _or_ believed it when I told’m I had a vasectomy.”

“... Is it like. A kink?”

“Might be. Ain’t really any repercussions so far, ‘s mostly why. An’ it’s fun.”

You hum considerately and look down at your cigarette, taking a few small puffs off of it before you speak again. “Dave Lalonde is my older brother. He was adopted out of my family. I don’t know much else but that.”

Derek snorts, shaking his head, and mutters: “Good luck with that. Prob’ly would’a been better for ya to stay in Houston.”

You hum your agreement, stubbing out your cigarette on the railing and pocketing the stub.

Heaving a breath, Derek leans back against the distressed, splintered wood of the bridge and looks up at the sky. “I’ve been paid to kill people.”

Your mouth opens. Then closes. _Hm._ Well, _your_ murder confession was your first piece of baggage and a hell of a lot more specific. So… why not.

“I’ve fucked Dave Lalonde. Am fucking, I guess. I’ve - done it twice, now, and I’m probably going to do it more. T’my knowledge he doesn’t know we’re related…”

Derek _looks_ at you, not even any particular way, and you launch into explanation. “He picked me up at some club I went to with my friend and just. Took me home, and I don’t know why I wasn’t thinking about it when he brought me there, why I didn’t _know_ that’s what he was getting at, but.” You realize all at once that you’re talking too fast and your voice is too high, so you stop abruptly and take a few breaths.

“He fucked me and then a few days ago he- he-” what’s a better way to phrase this. There is none. “Booty-texted me and I did it. Again.”

Derek blinks at you a few times, slow and even, and it’s starting to stress you out.

“Was it your first time?”

“What?”

“Did he pop your cherry. _De_ \- your flower. Fuck the innocence out of you. Take your virginity.”

Eyes narrowing and nose slightly wrinkling with disgust, you grunt and nod.

“Cool,” he says, reaching up and grabbing the back of your neck in his huge hand. You tense up, shoulders balling up and rubbing against his wrist as he pulls you down into an uncomfortably hard and poorly aligned kiss. One little shift from Derek’s hand - pushing your head the right way and easing you back with a balled up fist in your hair - and it feels… _leagues_ better.

Yanking you up fully and sitting up himself, Bro pats your ass. “You won. Good job, squirt. Proud’a ya.”

“I… you… what?”

“I love an opportunity to be a cuck,”Bro hauls himself up and starts back along the path, waving over his shoulder and calling back: “I’ll text you my address.”

Sitting reeling on the bridge, you get the distinct feeling you unlocked the second date on a guy that’s impossible to get a _good end_ with. The bad end waifu. What the fuck.

* * *

 

“My mom wants to get together again before she leaves to go back to New York,” Roxy tells you while you’ve got your nose practically pressed up against your sketchbook, and you imagine you must look funny when you peer up over the top of it at her.

(You’re practicing realism, Roxy makes a good model.)

“You two been talkin’ a lot?”

“Yeah…” Roxy says slowly. “Kind of. We talk at least once every day. Our schedules don’t match up much, so it’s… kind of like phone tag with one bigger conversation when she wakes up and I’m just about to go to bed.” Pausing, Roxy looks down at her phone. “I fall asleep on her a lot.”

“When’re you gettin’ together?” you ask this as you turn your attention back down to the paper, erasing one of Roxy’s curls to redraw.

“That’s the thing…” you stop. “She wants you to come too? If you’re cool with it. She… likes you. And thinks you’re really important to me. Which you are. She wants to get to know you a little better..?”

“Oh.”

“You don’t have to, if you don’t–”

“No, no. It’s cool.”

“I know you’re not really good with people, especially–”

“It’s cool, Rox. It’s fine. I don’t mind coming.”

“But…” Roxy breathes in and holds her breath for a long moment before sighing out, all at once: “But do you _want_ to.”

The first thing that comes to mind is _I just said I would, didn’t I?_ And you barely stop yourself from saying just that - literally biting down on the breath you take to say them. “... Yes,” you finally say after _thinking_ for once. “Yeah. She seems kinda cool and I’m not gonna say no to a free meal.”

Roxy gets that _I’m so lucky I met you_ teary look and you snap your eyes back down to your sketchbook. “You’re my best friend, Rox. Even if I didn’t want to I’d be all over it to make you happy. It’s not a problem, won’t ever be a problem, not even conceivable as a crisis. Okay? Cool. So when are we going?”

“This next Thursday,” she settles down more happily where she sits, sipping at her chocolate milk. Her voice even seems lighter. “We’re gonna head somewhere around five-thirty-ish for dinner. Think you can get the time off?”

“Yeah,” you shift your pencil in your hand to click a little more lead out, eyes bouncing between the paper and her eyes. “They don’t really give a shit whether or not I’m there and I don’t have any appointments scheduled then.”

The two of you sit in silence for a little while until you flip your sketchbook closed and toss it onto the coffee table with your pencil. “So I think I acquired another Fuckbuddy Opportunity.” That still doesn’t sound right.

Roxy sits up, eyebrows raised, and sets her milk down on the table. “Did Dave text you again, or-?”

“No, I mean. Another person.”

She looks ecstatic. “How’d you meet him?”

 _Him._ God, the two of you haven’t even talked about your sexuality and she’s on it. You hope that’s not entirely based on your encounters with Dave, but… She probably knows.

“Uh… he was at one of my clients’ houses. Buying drugs.”

Less ecstatic. “Oh.”

Looking away, you fold your hands together and brace your elbows on your knees. “Yeah. He- yeah. He kissed me today. He took me to lunch.”

“Are ya gonna date him…?” She doesn’t sound like she knows if she’s happy or unhappy about that. Yeah, Roxy, we know I have shit taste in men that only want to screw me. Please don’t mention it.

“No, he’s not interested in that.”

“Just your ass.”

“... Or my dick.”

She looks at you. You frown. She stretches out to wiggle under your arm and lay over your lap. “Dirky, you really need to meet a nice boy.”

* * *

DD: What’s your week look like?

TT: Working the usual 10 to 6 every day. Leaving work early on Thursday for a thing with my friend but otherwise nothing.

TT: Why?

DD: Which “friend”? Dave?

TT: Uh, no. My roommate.

DD: Aight. Come over to my place after you get off Friday. Plan to spend the night.

TT: Sure. Alright.

* * *

TG: hey

TG: hey dirk

TG: hey hey hey

TT: What.

TG: heeeeey baby how ydoin

TT: Fine, I’m at work. What’s up?

TG: k so listen you should come over on friday

TG: heeeeeeeey

TG: pay attention to me B(

TG: dirk

TG: dirk

TG: dirk

TG: heeey dirk

TT: I’m busy.

TG: come over friday just gimme a yes

TT: I mean I’m busy on Friday.

TG: B( just come over after

TT: I’m going to be busy until

TT: I don’t know. Mid-day Saturday.

TG: fine come over midday saturday

TT: Jesus fuck you’re persistent.

TG: well shit lmao you dont have to see me again if you dont want to

TG: im tryina work around your schedule here dude

TG: but shit i can just find someone else to fuck around with it really doesnt matter

TT: I’m not saying that.

TG: sorry i guess

TG: what?

TT: I’ll come over Saturday.

TT: I’m not trying to avoid you, I’ve just got a lot of shit going on day to day this week.

TT: I’ve got a thing Thursday night with my roommate and then

TT: Another business thing on Friday that’s going to keep me until late Friday night.

TT: It’s just hard. But I can be there.

TG: oh

TG: well

TG: alright thats cool

TG: we can hang out saturday itll be chill

TG: ive got the day off and stuff so

TG: yeah

TT: I’ll be there.

TG: can i send you a car

TT: No.

TG: … can i fuck you bareback

TT: I hate you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i continue to not care about editing especially fixing the bug with the italics fuk that
> 
> i wanna say thank you to everyone that's commented and personally talked to me about this fic, it helps so much and i just never thought i'd get this far thank you so much


	14. i thought this wouldn't hurt a lot

Lately you’ve been working in a lot of dealers’ dens. You’re not sure if word just  _ got out _ that you do house calls, or you’re just getting a lot of clients that like house calls.

You’re starting to get anxious that you’ll be caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, mid-tattoo when a drug den gets raided. Really, you’re not confident that you could get out of that without any charges pressed against you because, at bare minimum, you’re an accomplice by way of  _ not immediately reporting _ a bunch of  _ hard _ drug distributors. You’re really tempted to charge more because of this.

_ But _ you’re also terrified of asking for more than you’re getting. They could tell you they’ll only pay five bucks for a 10 hour job and you’d probably nod along and end up doing it for fucking free.

You thought you could handle this because of what you went through at the park, the people you dealt with, but you don’t have the leverage you did there.

_ Here, _ you’re just some fucking punk kid.

Until you walk into a den and see a man - not your client, you don’t think - pointing a gun at Dave Lalonde.

“I just decided I’m sick of dealin’ for you,  _ Davey. _ Instead, you’re gonna give me your fuckin’ wallet and everythin’ you’re wearin, and you’re gonna pay us for a while.  _ Or _ I’m gonna put a bullet in your fuckin’ head.”

You close the door behind you silently as the gunman yells his demands, feet shifting across the carpet slow with practiced ease. The only reason Dave hasn’t said something and gotten himself  _ shot, _ you imagine, is because he’s seen you.

One thing the glasses are good for, you guess.

“ _ Now!” _ the gunman shouts, pulling the trigger and shooting into the wall behind Dave. Dave startles visibly and you pull your sword from its sheathe on your back and hold it across the man’s throat, pressing it tight up against his throat.

This is a terrible idea. This is the worst idea you’ve ever fucking had. If you kill this guy, you’re screwed. If you injure this guy, you’re screwed. Hell - you’re  _ already _ screwed.

“Drop your gun or I’ll flay you alive,” you hiss up against his neck. The man is rigid against your chest, gun hand shaking, he lowers it a fraction and you press your blade tighter to his neck. “ _ Now, _ ” you order, snarling. “Unless you want me to spend hours  _ peeling the skin off of your living body.” _

He drops it. Dave flinches when it hits the floor with a dull  _ thunk. _

“Kick it away.”

The gunman kicks the gun with the side of his foot, sending it spiraling across the floor to the corner behind Dave, both of his hands raised now. Lifting your free hand, you knot your hand tightly in his hair and look aside to Dave - not that he can see it. “Dave. There are gloves in my left pocket. Get them out, put them on, and unload that gun.”

For a long moment Dave doesn’t move, but he slowly steps forward - giving the man in front of them a  _ wide _ berth, before coming to your side and digging the gloves out of your pocket. He clearly has some trouble putting them on his shaking hands on his way over to the gun. Dave picks up the gun like it’s a life grenade and fumbles with it- 

Grunting, you shove the gunman forward and slam his head into the wall where he’d just lodged a bullet. Pulling your sword away, you tug his head back by the hair and slam his head back into the wall. He goes limp and falls in a heap on the floor.

“I’ll do it,” you dig another pair of gloves out of your back pocket and pull them over your hands, latex covering your fingers whole and down to your wrists. You slide your sword back into its sheathe and quickly come to Dave’s side, forcibly taking the gun from his hand and dropping the magazine from its slot and pulling the slide back before tossing the gun to the ground again. 

Each bullet is pulled out rapidly and scattered over the ground, magazine tossed down to follow them. “Come on,” you order, hand around Dave’s wrist as you drag him out of the house to your bike. “Did you bring your car here?”

“N-no, I- had a driver drop me off. I planned - planned on staying a while and didn’t want anyone to see my car here.” 

“Good,” you straddle your bike and jerk your thumb toward your back. “Get on, hold on to me.”

* * *

 

Dave doesn’t talk the whole way back, just locks both arms around your waist and shakes. You’re surprisingly steady the whole way back to Dave’s house, stone fucking cold as you park in the empty driveway. “Is your sister here?” you ask as you pull yourself off your bike after Dave, twisting out your keys and shucking the latex gloves on your hands.

“No, she… she’s off doing some… fucking book deal-” he waves a hand like he’s waving her off wherever she is. “Did - do you -”

“Shut up.”

He shuts up, you stare at him for a while before reaching out to take his hands in yours, pulling off the gloves that he still wears. “We’re gonna wait until you chill out to talk about any of this shit,” you finally say, grabbing his hand tight in yours and dragging him toward the door. “Keys,” you reach out with your free hand, he drops his keys in your palm after nearly dropping them. “Good,” you praise, clipped and short as everything you say is right now, and unlock his door.

It’s now that you realize you’ve only been upstairs in his house and never seen more than two of his rooms and the paths to those rooms. “Kitchen,” you demand as you turn your attention back to Dave. He gestures with his free hand toward the left - two big archways that lead into a red, black, and gold dining room. You’re seeing a theme of overly “extravagant” styles and almost tackily bold colors.

It looks… nice. Though.

You take him into the dining room and, through two more arches, see the kitchen. It’s starkly contrasting to the dining room - all white marble tiles and black accents. You sit him on one of the barstools at the island and hunt for glasses, fill him a cup of water and give it to him.

“Thanks,” he murmurs. You sit next to him.

As he drinks his water the two of you stay silent and you don’t really look at him. Instead your focus lands on the huge floor-to-ceiling windows, covered only with sheer curtains and opening to a huge garden at the left side of the mansion. Light pours into the kitchen, gleaming off the tile and the stone. You’ve never been here during the daytime - you feel like you’re intruding.

You jump as you feel Dave’s skin brush against your upper arm, turning your head to look at him. He freezes for a moment, just looking at you back, before continuing the motion and looping his arm with yours. He slides his fingers against yours, curls your hands together. He’s still shaking.

Neither of you say anything for a few more minutes.

* * *

 

TT: You remember how we met?

DD: I remember explicitly saying I’m not gonna romance you.

TT: Yeah so do I, fuckface, I’m getting somewhere here.

DD: Yeah, I do. Why?

TT: I’m looking for a good guy to buy from that isn’t going to, say, point a gun at me.

DD: Alright…

TT: Do you sell stuff, or…?

DD: Carles isn’t a bad choice. Even if he owns a gun for protection and shit he’d be more likely to get his stock stolen than actually point it at anyone.

DD: You lookin’ to get into harder stuff? ‘Cause boy, I’ve got this friend Molly I think you’d like to meet.

TT: No, uh…

DD: Are you setting up your brofriend.

TT: He’s not my

TT: What.

DD: (K

TT: Ugh, fuck you.

DD: I’ll show you a proper fuck you on Friday, sweetheart.

TT: Yeah, yeah. I’ll see you then.

* * *

 

“I’ll find you a better dealer.”

Dave looks up from where he’s got his face pressed into your chest. The two of you ended up heading back into the red-black-and-gold room on the second floor, curled up in the rumpled bed. Dave insisted on getting as close to you as possible - you were expecting him to try to fuck you, but it hasn’t gotten that far yet. “What?”

“Obviously you can’t go back t’that guy,” you snort, shifting more onto your back against the pillows - Dave follows closely, legs curled around your thigh, arms around your chest. He’s clinging to you and you’re trying not to think about it. “So I’ll find you someone that isn’t going to try and fucking  _ kill you. _ ”

“... I think he was trying to rob me, actually…”

You squint at him.

“... Okay, yeah. But - dude, you’ve done. You’ve already done a  _ fucking lot _ today, man.”

“I know a guy. His name’s Carles, and he should be cool. If not… I know a guy that might know other people or might deal himself or something…” he clears his throat. “I’ll give you Carles’s number. Or - text him for you, give him your number.”

Dave’s quiet, fingers flexing in your shirt, he tugs himself on top of you and pushes you back into the bed, straddling your hips. “I’ve never been more attracted to you a day in my life.”

“... This is the third time you’ve seen me,” you squint at him. “You mean:  _ I’ve never been more attracted to you in the three days we’ve seen eachother?” _

Dave blinks a few times, frowning. “Don’t ruin it.”

“You wanna make out or fuck me?” you ask, an eyebrow raised as you relax back against the pillows.

At first Dave doesn’t say anything, just opens and closes his mouth a few times before clearing his throat and looking away - you can see his eyes, both of you took off your glasses a little while ago. “Make out…” he says, slow, like he’s not really sure.

“Mmhm…” you hum.

Dave settles down on you, caught between trying to cuddle you like he was and laying  _ on top _ of you. His hands cup your cheeks, pull you toward him until you’re forced to shift back onto your side to follow him.

The two of you kiss lazily, Dave staying surprisingly passive halfway under you. He makes more noise than usual- the smallest little huffs and borderline whimpers, his hands rubbing down your chest and over your sides, up your back.

“Thanks for…” he sighs against your lips, voice breathy, “... you didn’t need to…”

“Shut up,” you murmur against his mouth.

You leave after nearly an hour of kissing broken up by brief pauses where Dave holds on to you and breathes against your neck. 

At some point you’d expected to get kicked out or encouraged to leave, at the very least, but it’s actually sort of a struggle to get out of Dave’s house. He doesn’t say anything outright outside of the same “you can stay a little longer…” murmurs that he’d rolled out before, coupled with shrugging when you refuse, but at first he won’t let go of you.

He  _ wanted _ you to stay and you… don’t know what to do with that.

* * *

 

TG: fwd me that number whenever you get the chance

TG: im probably not gonna follow up on it until like after the weekend but i might as well text him or whatever

TT: Yeah, sure. 

TT: [carles.g.cnct]

TG: cool thanks

TT: Let me know if you need anything else.

TG: will do

* * *

 

CG: Did you really give Dave Lalonde my number.

TT: Yeah, he needed a new dealer.

CG: How the fuck did you get Dave Lalonde’s number???

CG: What the fuck, how do you know Dave Lalonde?

TT: Long story, don’t wanna get into it.

TT: You a fan or something?

CG: I ***FUCKING*** hate his movies.

TT: Lmao.

CG: NO, DON’T YOU “LMAO” ME. HIS MOVIES ARE A-FUCKING-TROCIOUS.

CG: I’M NOT GOING TO SELL TO HIM.

TT: He’s got a lot of money.

CG: I’M NOT FUCKING DOING IT.

TT: Dude.

CG: I can already tell he’s going to annoy the FUCK out of me.

TT: You don’t have to hang out with him, just give him his shit and send him on his way.

CG: I know exactly his fucking type.

CG: Believe me, I’ve been selling to Derek for like, two fucking years now.

CG: He’s going to fucking send me unsolicited dickpics over snapchat asking for his shit.

CG: And I’m going to have to look at them! It’s my job! To look at him and respond in order to get paid!

CG: I DON’T WANT TO SEE DAVE LALONDE’S DICK.

TT: It’s not a bad dick.

TT: Does Derek do that?

CG: OF COURSE DEREK FUCKING DOES IT WHY WOULDN’T HE RIGHT.

CG: EVERYONE WANTS TO SEE HIS DICK WHY WOULD I CONCEIVABLY NOT WANT TO SEE HIS DICK, RIGHT???

TT: Jesus. Good luck, man.

CG: I’M GOING TO FUCKING NEED IT APPARENTLY.

* * *

 

“This place is a lot more… modest,” you mutter as you and Roxy approach a building that declares itself a  _ Casual Cafe. _ It’s not a small building - it  _ looks _ like a restaurant - and while you’re pretty sure it’s not a chain restaurant it looks like any other Chili’s, Outback, or Olive Garden.

“I think she took how uncomfortable you were last time into account,” Roxy murmurs aside to you, squeezing your arm when you bristle. Probably visibly.

“Great,” you mumble.

“Don’t pout.”

“I’m not.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Two?” the hostess asks as she gathers up your menus. 

You stay quiet and Roxy shakes her head. “Um, three? I think we have reservations under Lalonde?”

“Oh!” The hostess startles a little, then nods and gestures with a sweep of her free hand for the two of you to follow her around the hostess’s station and into the walkway. “Right this way, your table is already waiting.

Rose is at the table already when you two show up, a basket of bread in the middle of the surface and a wine glass beside a tiny plate in front of her. She picks at a piece of bread with her shiny purple nails, a small piece halfway into a dish of butter.

“Hello,” she says, looking between you two and holding herself like she’s  _ tempted _ to get up and shake your hands. The two of you sit across from her - Roxy directly across, you at her side.

The hostess sets down your menus and asks for your drink orders - Roxy gets a water, you get a Dr. Pepper.

“I wanted to apologize for my… earlier choice of establishment. I felt this was more fitting - my choice before, really, was… misguided, to say the least.” Rose nudges the bread basket closer to you two, along with the dish of butter. You break off a chunk of rye immediately, dig it into the butter -  _ freefoodfreefoodfreefood. _

“It’s fine,” Roxy is saying, “it didn’t bother us much -” she glances at you but you don’t chip in, just munch on your bread. “This place seems pretty, uh… good. Though.”

They’re  _ so  _ stiff. Still.

It’s not really surprising. This is the second time they’ve met in person - to your knowledge - and there’s a stark difference between texting and talking. You know that better than almost anyone.

“Yeah,” you agree as you open up the menu and get a look at everything. It’s all still pretty expensive, but  _ shit _ , at least you can read it.

There’s a small lapse of silence.

“So, Dirk.” You look up, eyebrows raised, admittedly surprised she remembered your name - though, you guess she and Roxy talk a lot, don’t they? You probably come up at least once in awhile. “Tell me about your family. Did you leave them back in Texas?”

… Alright, uncomfortable.

“... The only family I had was my dad. He died three years ago. Blood pressure stuff.”

“Oh. I see. My condolences.”

You shrug, picking at the edge of the laminated menu. “It’s fine. He was a pretty shitty dad. It didn’t affect me too much. May’ve lived with me, but he was pretty non-present in my life. I never really felt like… I belonged with him or anything.”

“Ah…” Rose nods slowly, crossing her arms on the table and leaning forward slightly. You close your menu and set it aside with Rose’s. “And how did you fair after that? I don’t imagine that had much part in you moving here - Los Angeles is much more expensive than Houston is, especially the more rural areas outside of Houston.”

“I did fine. My…”  _ trailer. _ “House. Was paid off, so I didn’t need to worry about that. I made money tattooing in my-”  _ trailer park. _ “- community. I had some other jobs, too.”

“What kind of other jobs?”

This is beginning to sound more and more like an interrogation, despite her even, interested tone. Your lips press thin and you brace your arms on the table. “I worked as a ranch-hand for a brief period of time. Don’t know if I can really call it bein’ a ranch hand, considering I was mostly brushing show horses, but.” You shrug. “It was a good job.”

“Do you hope to be an artist in Los Angeles, then? Is that why you came here? I’m not sure this state would be my first choice to pursue art.”

You  _ really _ don’t like this.

“I’d rather not talk about it, actually.” You look away, shoulders bunching up to your neck.

“My apologies.”

Rose and Roxy lapse into their own conversation. Rose doesn’t press you for the rest of their meeting - not when you get your food, not after you get your food, and not when you leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise


	15. i want all of your lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's the brodirk we were all waiting for
> 
> ... in my alphacest fic...
> 
> *sweats*

Derek Straight lives in a condo in Santa Monica that looks more like a hotel than a complex of houses. The space itself doesn’t suit him much at all, neat and admittedly beautiful with a sprawling view of the beach out the back as soon as you walk in. Tall windows and a big glass door lead out to a long balcony only sparingly furnished with a single chair and what looks like an ashtray, but you can’t be sure from this distance. 

His living-room is nice, furnished with leather, but not well kept up. Blankets and clothes are strewn over the couches, bottles and glasses cover most of the coffee table, and every direction you look something sharp is within arm’s reach. Big and small knives, some forks, shuriken and kama - an array of weapons with more promised.

“Dirk.” Your attention snaps to where Derek stands at the door, shut behind you. He hovers, eyes set on you and his hand fully splayed against the wood.

Clearing your throat where a knot feels stuck in it, you lift your chin. “Derek,” you reply, turning fully to face him now and stiffening when his hand slips from the door and raises toward your neck. You step back and he follows, only resting his fingers under your chin. You breathe out. 

“We’ve got some talking to do,” he tells you, stroking his knuckle under your chin and shifting his hand to your shoulder as he steers you into a modern kitchen. His arm slings around your shoulders as he opens the fridge with his free hand, pulling out a bottle of water and handing it to you before taking you to the living room and sitting you down on a couch.

“... About…?” you ask belatedly, rolling the water bottle between your palms and watching him as he sits down beside you.

“The nature of our relationship. I want t’introduce you to the dominate-submissive dynamic. BDSM stuff.”

_ Oh. _ The phrase brings to mind immediately a sensory picture: Derek tying you up, fucking you hard and gifting you no leverage to do anything but take it, whispering degrading shit in your ear. Slowly nodding, you clear your throat and unscrew the cap of your water bottle. “Okay,” you say cautiously.

“This shit ain’t just a sex thing, it’s a lifestyle. It doesn’t have to be romantic - shit, it isn’t in my case - but there’s gotta be a lot of trust. I don’t expect to earn it fully overnight, but we’ll get there. Capiche?”

You take a sip from your water, slowly nodding. “Capiche,” you echo.

“Cool. First we’re gonna talk about safe words. You should have two, minimum, but we can always discuss more for different shit. For instance, this one sub I messed around with wanted extra to signal when he was and wasn’t down to be treated like a sub. Mostly he was cool with it all the time, whenever I felt like it, but once in awhile he wasn’t in the mood for any of it and he’d use a word t’signal when he wanted me to drop all that shit. But-” he holds up a finger, “we’ll talk about availability in a second. You stickin’ with me?”

Toeing off your shoes and pulling your legs up onto the couch, you nod. His eyes sweep over you and his eyes narrow before he nods back. “Y’can pick your own words if y’want, but they’ve gotta be shit you wouldn’t normally say durin’ sex. _Stop_ isn’t really a good safe word ‘cause, well, we might get a little involved in certain fantasies. Cryin’ ain’t necessarily a good signal for me needin’ to take it back a notch, either. If y’don’t understand that now, y’probably will once we get into it. Alternatively - if y’don’t wanna think up special shit - y’can use the color system. Like a stoplight. Red for full stop, drop your dom shit and get me some aftercare or whatever you’ll need, yellow for don’t stop but pull it back, green for all good. I might ask you in the middle of stuff for a color check.”

“That sounds… easy to remember. It makes sense.”

“Yeah, good.” Derek grins at you, lopsided and almost in the manner of a dog baring its teeth. “Color system?”

“Color system,” you agree worrying the label of your water bottle. This is… a lot to have sprung on you. “You… know I don’t have much practical experience with…” 

“Sex?” Derek interrupts, leaning back against the plush leather cushion of his couch and spreading his arms over the back of it. “Yeah, I know. I’ll give you Kink Intro. Don’t worry about it.”

Your lips twist into a frown and you screw the cap back on your bottle of water. “I’ve found over the past couple of weeks that the  _ inexperience fetish _ mostly lies in the potential for grooming.”

“Everyone likes a blank canvas. ‘Cept pussies.”

You shake your head, pushing your glasses up out of the way for you to rub the bridge of your nose. “So what’s next? Availability?”

Derek nods, sitting up and tapping his finger at the lid of the water bottle. “Availability. Like I said, this shit doesn’t start and end at sex. It leads into regular everyday stuff, too. This kind of shit is therapeutic at its best. Real life gets stressful and shitty, so you bend over for me for a few hours and we work it outta you. In turn, I get an outlet and more of the same relaxation. Just in a different way. And that’s at the bare bones, the best way it’s meant. Sometimes it reaches further’n’that.”

Drawing your water bottle closer to yourself, you unscrew the cap again and drink from it before nodding slowly. “Okay,” you prompt.

“Sometimes it reaches into every day life. We don’t gotta be havin’ sex or even in the same room to get the same shit out of it in small doses. That all depends on how much y’wanna give me, though. Y’don’t know how you’ll fit with this yet, so we’ll leave off settin’ any concrete borders about this, but as you figure out how often y’need it we’ll discuss it.” Derek pauses, raising an eyebrow and lifting a hand to tap the closest arm of your shades. “Communication’s big here. You’ve already told me some important shit, so I’d hope you’re already pretty comfortable bein’ open. Good?”

Slowly you lift up your shades to sit atop your head, swallowing around the knot in your throat and nodding. “Good,” you echo, drinking down the rest of the water and screwing the cap back on the bottle.

“Good,” he confirms. “Kinks are the same thing. Y’won’t know how y’feel about ‘em too well until we really get into them, but we’re gonna talk about’em. Ideally y’should never have to red-card me, ‘cause we should have everythin’ worked out so I know your limits well. That’s what’s next, we’re gonna talk about what you’re good with and what you’re not good with. Anythin’ that comes to mind immediately?”

Your eyes shift over to the coffee table, stacked with beer bottles and empty glasses. “... I don’t want you under the influence of anything while we’re… doing stuff. Pot’s different, but nothing more than that and no alcohol.”

“... Okay…” Derek slowly says, measured but not disagreeing. He shifts to sit against the arm of the couch, facing you more properly. “Anythin’ else?”

“I don’t want you to hit me.” You glance up at him, checking his expression, and he… looks like he  _ kind of _ has a problem with that.

“No spanking?” he edges, raising an eyebrow, and you worry your lower lip as you mull it over.

“With your hand is fine. No… belts or paddles or… whatever else. Just your hand.”

Derek looks more satisfied with that, face smoothing out as he nods. “A’right, I can work with that just fine. How d’you feel about bondage?”

“That’s… fine. I’m interested in that… just… don’t leave me tied up alone.”

“I can respect that. Any restrictions on dirty talk? Might be another one’a those things you won’t know about ‘til we get into it.”

You nod. “Nothin’ I can think of. Maybe-” you pause, swallow and roll your water bottle between your hands. “Don’t bring shit with dads into it. That’s a thing, right?”

“That’s a thing,” he confirms, “no problem, kid.” Derek pushes himself up off the couch, holding his hand out to you. “Bottle.”

You put the water bottle in his hand and he tosses it over the coffee table to land with a little  _ pap _ on the floor. With a crook of his finger he gestures for you to stand and you humor him, pushing yourself up to your feet.

“Only door down the hall,” he nods across the room toward the hallway, setting his hands on his hips. “Get in there and get on your knees beside the bed.”

There’s nothing immediately  _ thrilling  _ about it aside from the apprehension of the implication; that you’ve known since you showed up and even  _ before _ that that you would be doing  _ something  _ with him tonight. Swallowing to clear your throat, you nod and turn stiffly to head back into the bedroom.

It’s just as messy as the living-room with only more potentially dangerous shit scattered around the edges. (It’s dark, but you think you see at least three guns.) The bed is unmade, and the floor in front of it is conveniently clear of any debris as you settle down onto your knees there. 

Taking off your glasses entirely and setting them on the nightstand, you take a few deep breaths and stare down at your hands as you flex them into fists and let them relax. The shaking doesn’t really cease, but it gets… better.

You startle when the door cracks open, looking toward it quickly but staying planted where you are. Despite being tempted to say something,  _ anything, _ you stay quiet as Derek approaches the edge of the bed. He steps around the clutter of the room smoothly, practiced, and sits at the edge of the bed in front of you.

“You’ve sucked dick, before, yeah?”

You nod and his fingers knot into your hair, pulling your head back to make you look up at him. The big windows behind him are the only source of light, leaving his front shadowed with a halo of blue-white around his silhouette. “Talk t’me, kid, speak up.”

“Y-yeah.”

“Uh-uh, not like that. You’re a proper Texas boy, ain’t’cha? Give it t’me like y’were taught.”

You clear your throat, hands raising to brace yourself on his knees. “Yes, sir.”

“Good boy,” his voice softens if only marginally, and his fingers loosen in your hair to stroke along your scalp. “Unbutton me.”

Your hands slide up his thighs and you have a hard time pulling your eyes away from his, but you manage to look down at his crotch and shakily thumb open the button on his jeans. You ease the zipper down and he endures your pace patiently as you splay open his fly before looking back up.

He nods once. You curl your fingers under the waistband of his boxers and pull down just enough to bare his cock and - after a brief second of thought - his balls too.

He’s not even really  _ hard _ yet and he’s still big. The underside is studded in a ladder of silver barbells and you’re… really not sure if you can take all of this. It seems like a lot…  _ more _ than it was on the screen of your phone.

“C’mon, sweetheart, don’t stall out.” Not demanding, but prompting. You nod urgently and lean down to rub your nose along his length, lips trailing afterward. This is both exactly the same as and completely unlike Dave. 

“Manners, kid, come on. You’re not a slow learner,” he chastises, voice dropping low again. 

Looking up, you clear your throat and speak against the root of his cock: “Yessir.”

“Good boy.”

First you drag your tongue along those piercings, making sure that the barbells roll under your tongue before moving up his length to the head where you work your mouth around the tip before taking him back along your tongue. You’re worried, in the back of your head, about the safety of your tongue piercing and the potential for catching it on  _ his _ piercings like some sort of fucked up braces lock: punk edition. 

“Look up at me,” Derek orders, and your eyes snap up. He doesn’t look any different from the last time you glanced up: Dark all up his front, fully clothed, face barely discernable from the shadows cast over it. “Good,” he praises after a moment, fingers knotting in your hair and pulling you down the length of his cock. It’s swelling in your mouth, thickening on your tongue, and you’re not so sure you’ll be able to do this a minute from now.

Your mouth slides down past the last rung of piercings, your tongue rubbing Derek’s warm skin as it heats and carefully navigating to avoid catches and discomfort as you (and Derek) draw your mouth back and forth across the last couple of inches of his cock. With every stroke it gets harder (pun intended) and after a few you push against his thighs to tug away from him. Derek holds you there for the first few seconds of your resistance - just to show you he can, probably - before letting you go. 

Panting to catch your breath, you dig the tips of your fingers into his knees and grip tightly there, rubbing your fingertips against rough denim. Your eyes snap up as Derek draws a breath to speak.

“Strip,” he orders, leaning back on one of his hands and gesturing for you to stand with an upward twitch of his index finger.

You get to your feet, licking your lips and tugging off your shirt first, the fabric hanging off your fingers as you glance around —

“Throw y’r clothes in that chair,” he indicates, nodding toward a chair a couple feet away from the bed - in the corner of the room.

“Yessir,” you reply smoothly now, tossing the shirt into the chair and unknotting the tie holding your sweatpants up. You push them down—

“Underwear, too, kid.”

You pull back your thumbs, slide them into the waistband of your underwear too, and pull both down to your feet. Stripping off your socks and gloves, too, you throw the whole pile into the chair and -

Derek’s hands grab your hips and pull you close, turning you so that your back is to him and tugging you down onto his lap. “It’s just me,” he soothes, sitting you on his leg and rubbing his hands up and down your chest. Your shoulders slowly relax - you didn’t even know they were tensed up like that. “Chill. Color?”

“Green,” you drag your fingertips over his forearms just short of scratching, gripping at the muscle just before the dip of his elbow.

“A’right,” he murmurs against your shoulder, hands dropping back to your hips and pulling you fully over his cock. The length of it rubs against you, pushing against your balls and up against the underside of your cock. The zipper of his fly scratches against your ass. “Lean back against me.”

You lean back, breathing out slowly and shifting your legs to spread them over Derek’s knees. Denim scrapes against your bare skin, a startling contrast, and Derek’s scarred and calloused palms only emphasize it as they rub down your thighs. He hums behind you, fingers skating more slowly over your tattoos like reading braille.

Wiggling uncomfortably, you spread your legs wider and he adapts without mention, grabbing at the muscles of your thighs. “You’ve got nice legs,” he remarks with a scrape of teeth against your shoulder.

“I-I’ve been told,” you clear your throat, try to brush off the slight stutter in your voice. “Thanks…”

He slaps your thigh with his fingers and the upper curve of his palm, kissing behind your ear and edging his teeth against a bruise there. “Try again, baby.”

“T-thank you, sir.”

“Better,” he rubs his palm soothingly over where he just slapped, slowing until your thighs fidget again. His hips move and his cock slides through the crease of your pelvis again. He pats your outer thigh. “Get up.”

You stumble, legs shaking, back onto your feet and look back at Derek as he strips off his shirt and tosses it to the floor. His chest is  _ covered _ in scars, and not a single tattoo covers them. What tattoos he  _ does _ have on his chest seem to work pointedly around them. Your heart pounds. Standing, he points to the bed with a jerk of his thumb and pats your ass with his other hand. “On your knees. Chest down, ass up.”

“Y’ss’r,” you crawl onto the bed, balling your hands up in the sheets to quell their shaking as you press your face and your chest into the bed - 

“Higher’n’that.” The bed dips and you lift your ass up higher, shaking as his hands smooth over your thighs and up to your asscheeks, spreading them wide with his palms. Your breathing shakes and you press your nose into the sheets. “Good boy,” he praises.

You jump when you feel a studded tongue drag up the back of your balls, drawing flat over your skin up to your hole. A soft whine punches out of you before you can stop it and the tip of Derek’s tongue drags along your rim. “F- _ fuck, _ ” you whimper, grabbing for the pillow at the head of the bed and tugging it closer to you. “D- _ derek. _ ”

“Mmmhm,” he hums against you, sounding extremely satisfied with himself as he slides his tongue  _ in _ until the warm, smooth metal of the barbell through his tongue stops him. 

It’s shallow, but he licks your rim open while you strangle his pillow. Every time you squirm too much his fingers dig into your ass, blunt tips pressing bruises into your skin until you settle down. 

Pulling back a few minutes later, Derek bites one asscheek and smacks the other with his open hand. “You’ve got a tiny ass,” he remarks with a snicker, drawing his hand away. You just whine in response. “Don’t be upset, it’s cute.” He smacks it again with his other hand before pulling that away too. You shift and look back just in time for one of his slicked fingers to slide into your ass to the knuckle. You hiss.

“Y’can take it, settle down,” he squeezes your thigh before rubbing his hand up to spread your ass open again, finger thrusting into you quickly, mercilessly but efficiently. Every stroke presses you open wider around the thickness of his finger up until he works in a second with barely any hesitation. You shiver out a moan, covering your mouth with your palm.

“Uh-uh, put that pillow back up where you found it and keep both hands half a foot away from y’r head, kid.”

A couple seconds pass before you comply, murmuring almost inaudibly: “Y’ss’r.”

“What was that, baby? Couldn’t hear you right.” His fingers dig into your skin.

_ “Yessir,” _ you repeat more loudly, more clearly.

“Good boy,” he praises, sinking in a third finger and stretching you out until you moan again, this time to the open air.  _ “Goood…” _ he coos out, voice softer.

By the time he pulls his fingers out, you’re sloped over, lax, with your thighs spread wider than they were when you started. Your head’s floaty and not quite empty - but it feels lighter.

“Still with me?” he asks, and something clicks in your head - you snap to better awareness, the response falling out of your mouth before you really think it.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good,” he strokes up and down your sides, praising. “You want me t’fuck you like this?”

“Uh…” you slowly shift your arms underneath your chest, bracing your weight on them as you lift your head and mull it over. Do you? If you don’t, how would you prefer it? It seems… wrong, somehow, to take him on your back. You could ride him, but that - doesn’t sound comfortable, either. “Yeah…” you slowly agree, shifting your weight back down onto your chest with your arms still wedged underneath you to hold your weight.

Derek reaches out and moves your arms, pulling them so your shoulders are more lax. You shudder out a breath. The room is quiet aside from the soft creaking of the ceiling fan and it’s easy to hear the slick sound of Derek coating his cock in lube, smearing the extra left on his palm onto your ass. 

You can feel each piercing roll against your rim as he presses into you, not stopping once as he thrusts his cock into you in one slow stroke. Your hands ball up in the sheets and his body bends over yours - hands covering your fists and squeezing them. “Tensin’ up doesn’t do y’any good, sweetheart,” he informs you, rubbing his hands down to your wrists and rubbing his thumbs into them, squeezing them until your fingers uncurl. “That’s it…”

Broad hands pull your thighs wider apart, drop you a little lower, and thick fingers splay either side your head. You shift your hands to grip Derek’s wrists as he pulls out of you slowly, the head of his cock edging halfway out your hole before he slams his weight forward - rocking the bed with the force of his thrust into you.

Your breath hitches and you dig your nails into his skin, biting down on your lower lip. It  _ feels _ like he’s trying to fuck you as hard as possible, moving slowly as he does. The first couple of thrusts  _ hurt, _ but slowly fill you with a tingling almost-numbness and force huffs of moans out of you. By the sixth thrust he’s moving faster, by the time he’s fucking you just as fast as he is hard you’ve lost count of which stroke it is.

“I w-want-” you gasp when you let go of one of his wrists to grip one of the slats in the headboard.  _ “Please…” _ you whimper helplessly.

“Want what, baby?” Derek asks, not a stutter in his pace and his fingers knotting in your hair - pulling. His breath is labored but his voice is even. “What could y’possibly want when y’r so far gone y’can’t even talk t’me proper?”

As Derek drops lower to press his rough-smooth-hairy-slick chest to your back, his pace lapses the slightest bit. “You want  _ more?” _ he asks with his lips pressed to your shoulder, teeth sinking  _ in. _

You gasp, sob, roll your hips back against his next thrust clumsily and helplessly, your skin scratching against the rough denim of his jeans. The hand in your hair retreats to steady your hip. “I w-wanna  _ come _ , _ ”  _ you cry and  _ God _ do you sound pathetic. You sound like a kid begging for ice-cream and throwing a tantrum because you can’t have it.

“And why don’t you?” Derek asks, voice low and amused, hips suddenly  _ stopping _ against your ass with the zipper of his fly grating up against your tingling skin. He’s rooted in you, balls-fucking-deep and  _ fuck. _ Fuckfuckfuck _ fuck. _

You sob and actually pound your balled up fist against the sheets. It makes no satisfying sound, doesn’t even feel relieving. Your hand sinks into the cushion of the bed with no resistance and you can’t take it. “I can’t!” you sob - your cheeks are hot and you think you’re actually crying. Fuck - fuck this is  _ mortifying. _ “I need-”

You didn’t even realize your hand was moving, slipping down to try and get a hold of your cock, but Derek pins it to the bed with a tight grip around your wrist.

“Nah, baby. You come when I  _ say _ you can come.” Derek purrs, low against your neck with lazy kisses against your skin that match the lethargic rock of his hips. Teasing, easy, and not  _ nearly _ enough after the precedent he set.

_ “Please,” _ you sob into the bed, flexing your hand around his wrist and clawing weakly at his skin, weakly struggling in the grip of his other hand. “Please, sir, I can’t- I  _ need to--” _

“Do you, baby? You need t’come so bad? What about what  _ I _ need?”

“I want- want you to come, too,” you gasp, voice higher than it’s meant to be, hips rolling mindlessly back against his. Derek chuckles.

“You tryin’a ride my dick from down there, kid?” he asks, releasing your wrist and sliding his hand over your ribs, down over your stomach. “You’re a desperate little slut, aren’t you? Didn’t even take that much to work you down,” he grins and thrusts into you harder - though just as slowly. “All it took was a dick fillin’ you up ‘fore you fell apart. I bet-”

A moan drags out of you as Derek’s rough, calloused thumb drags over the leaking head of your cock. More dribbles out of you, beading over his thumb and dripping like drool, thin and dribbling. Your cock bobs against your stomach, twitching.

“Yep,” Derek laughs under his breath, lips pressing closer to your ear as his teeth rake against your jaw. “You’d probably come just as soon as I touch you proper, huh? Gonna take a  _ lot _ more trainin’ before you’re gonna be able t’hold off ‘til I say you can,” he fucks you faster, now, and your hips roll back against his. “Even more ‘fore y’can come on command.”

Predictably as soon as he wraps his hand around your cock and strokes once, you’re coming into Derek’s palm and sobbing into the sheets, gripping his wrist tightly and humping his fist desperately. Derek slows his thrusts, dragging his cock out of you once your hips stop hitching against his hand, and sits back. In a quick motion that smears your come all up your side, Derek flips you over onto your back and stares down at you.

You’re almost too blissed out to give a shit, but your shoulders tense and your legs squirm on either side of his knees, thighs pulling together before his come-streaked hand pushes them open wider. He fists his other hand around his cock and brings himself off, jerking himself until he comes in streaks over your stomach and chest.

Derek wipes his hands off on your thighs before grabbing your knees and pulling your legs wider apart - splaying them open. He whistles, low and appreciative, and your toes curl. “Y’should think about gettin’ your picture taken like this,” he says, grinning crookedly. “Wanna send some pics t’your bro? Think he’d like’em?”

“I…” your chest tightens and you scramble to get your arms under you but have trouble pushing yourself up. Your whole body is shaking and weak. “I don’t know…”

“No pressure, kid, it’s a suggestion for another time.” His thumbs rub circles into your knees, palms rubbing down the outsides of your thighs. “Just… damn, baby, you make a pretty picture.”

“I.. mmh...” you look away, falling back onto your shoulders and heaving breaths.

“You do,” he assures you voice softer, and slips to the side off of the bed. You close your thighs and watch him push his jeans and his boxers fully down and off, kicking them to the side. Derek reaches out to pat your knee, squeezing it. “I’ll get somethin’ t’clean you up and grab you another water. Wait here, a’right?”

You nod, reaching up to drag one of the pillows better under your head. “Yessir,” you murmur, almost reflexive at this point, and remark to yourself that you’re sore all over. Derek heads back out the door you both entered through and you stare up at the ceiling.

Somehow you assumed that sex would feel the same between Derek and Dave. Stupid to assume, really, they’re both completely different people, but… it was  _ really  _ different.

And different now, too. Derek’s not with you, now, and yeah you  _ want _ him with you more than anything but you aren’t anxious that he’s gone. You don’t feel sick to your stomach that he’s not next to you. You just feel… tingling, raw, vulnerable.

You glance toward the door, then back to the ceiling. He’s taking a long time. 

Dave would probably mad if you actually  _ did _ send him pictures. You’re gross. Your  _ purity _ or whatever was what he was after, right? He’d be upset, probably disgusted, seeing you covered in someone else’s come. Well - yours, too, but mostly someone else’s.

You look down, eyes sweeping over your own body to remark all the jizz smeared into your skin. Yeah, you can’t tell. You flop back down onto your back fully. Derek probably should’ve used a condom. You don’t know what kind of STDs he might have. Well - he’s a porn star, actually, so he  _ should _ be clean, right? It’s his job to be clean.

Heaving a sigh, you rub your hands down your face only to drop them immediately back to the bed as the door opens.

“Hey,” Derek comes to the edge of the bed, dropping your shoes next to the rest of your clothes and setting a bottle of water on the nightstand. He takes a second to gather up the bottle of lube that fell to the floor at some point, putting that on the nightstand as well. “Gonna turn the light on.”

You shield your eyes as Derek clicks the light on, struggling to sit up against the pillows before Derek’s hand stops you. “Take it easy, just lay back. I’ll take care’a you.” 

After a second’s hesitation you settle down, shifting your leg out of the way to make room for Derek to sit down. He refolds a damp dishtowel in his hand before bringing it to your thigh - it’s warm, not hot but heated - and wiping you down with careful strokes of the fabric against your skin.

You hiccup and he looks up at you, eyebrows raised. “You okay…?” he prompts. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing?” you wipe your cheek with your wrist and take a shaky breath. Jesus  _ fuck, _ you’re crying. Why the fuck are you crying? “I don’t…” your voice wobbles, “I  _ dunno.” _

Derek folds the dishtowel over again and crawls over your other leg to sit at your side. “You’re okay,” he soothes, voice still rough and grating, curt, but dropped to a softer tone. Like before, but… more. Better. “I’ve got you, kid, cry if y’need t’cry. It happens.”

“D-does it?” you ask, shoulders shaking now and sobs punching air out of your lungs. 

“Yeah, sometimes.” He pulls you between his legs and guides you back against his chest by the shoulder, the towel dragged over your chest and down your stomach, cleaning you up. “It’s a lot to handle, huh? New stuff?”

“I’m an  _ a-adult,” _ you cover your face with both of your hands and he lets you, rubbing your other thigh clean and hugging his other arm around you. 

“Don’t matter. Sometimes your body can’t handle crap like this anyway. It’s pretty intense, ‘specially if you’re real wound up and it’s your first time doin’ somethin’ like this. You did real good.”

“Did I? I don’t - I don’t think-”

“You did, trust me,” Derek tosses the dishtowel off the bed and combs his fingers into your mess of hair. “You did real good.”

That’s more of a relief than it should be. Your body sags against his and your sobbing slows, though your body still shakes uncontrollably. Derek lowers his head to kiss over where he bit your shoulder before. He breathes slowly and deeply against your back and you find yourself matching his rhythm with your own.

“See? You’re okay. No problem. We’ll lay here for a little while, then maybe order some food in a little while. Sound good?”

“S-sounds good,” you agree, letting Derek move your body as he shuffles down the bed and lays you both down over the covers. He holds you steady, rubs your sides and your chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all of the feedback is appreciated! thank all of you so so much for your comments and praises, i really really appreciate it.
> 
> let me know what you think!


	16. tear yourself apart to entertain like me

It feels like hours pass before you feel anywhere close to normal again, and even then as Derek pulls away from you it’s a struggle not to whimper and follow after him.

“Can y’stand okay?” he asks as you scoot to the edge of the bed after him, his arm held out in an offer to help steady you as your feet touch the ground. Your legs quake and nearly give under you but you manage to stay on your feet. If only to show Derek you’re not completely pathetic. His arm wraps around you anyway, big hand squeezing your shoulder.

“Go t’the bathroom,” he instructs with a gesture toward the archway leading into a tiled room. “Trust me, kid, just do it. I’ll grab y’somethin’ to wear for a few hours.”

You frown after him as he heads toward the other end of the room, huffing and trying your best to walk normally on your way into his bathroom. He makes a fair point, you’ve had two bottles of water and now that you think about it you  _ kind of _ need to pee.

When you come out from his bathroom, which is just as cluttered as the rest of his condo, Derek is waiting by the door with a pair of sweatpants and a shirt in his hand. He’s dressed similarly, sweatpants slung low on his hips and a sleeveless shirt pulled over his chest. “What kinda pizza toppings do you like?”

“Anythin’ with peppers on it. No sausage.” You struggle to get into the sweatpants and Derek offers his body to lean against as you wrestle with your uncooperative legs.

“A’right,” he says when you’re finally properly upright, withdrawing your phone from his pocket and handing it over before fishing out his own and leading you back into the living-room.

You end up with a grilled chicken, pineapple, mushroom and jalapeño pizza. The two of you eat in the living room, sitting together on one of Derek’s couches with some adult cartoons running for white noise. At first you’re tucked up against Derek’s side, but as the shows run and you empty the pizza box you find yourself edging to sit comfortably half a foot away. You don’t notice it, but you don’t feel as raw.

Afterward the two of you lounge for a while longer, the only noise in the room coming from the TV speakers.

Wrapping up the last episode of the show you’d settled on, Derek urges you up and ushers you into the shower around one in the morning. He gets you into bed before he takes his own shower, and by the time he gets back you’re already half asleep.

* * *

 

It’s barely starting to lighten outside when you rouse to the feeling of something dragging over your chest.

You snap to awareness more quickly than usual, displaced and unsettled, and lock eyes on Derek’s arm. The other man is shifting onto his side, tucking his arm underneath himself. From the looks of it, he’s still asleep.

Breathing slowing, you flex your aching thighs and stretch your legs.  _ Fuck, _ that scared you more than it had any business scaring you. Sighing out, you shift onto your side to turn your back to Derek and tuck your arms around your pillow as you stare out the sliver of window you can see where the curtain doesn’t quite cover it.

And you stay like that.

There isn’t a clock in sight and you don’t want to reach for your phone, so you don’t know what time it is, but it feels like  _ hours _ that you lay there. Too tired to have any motivation to get up, too awake to get to sleep properly. It’s a familiar feeling.

You never roll back over, but you contemplate the comfort of the warmth you feel radiating from Derek’s back. You consider another shower. You consider leaving. You consider making coffee. You try to go back to sleep.

You don’t.

Derek wakes up a couple hours later while you paw through the posts trickling into the top of your dashboard on tumblr. A chunk of the people you follow are awake around this time, but a lot of it is still nightblogging. You shuffle onto your back to look at him as he reaches for his phone. You listen to him grumble, watch him drop his phone back onto the nightstand and roll around to look at you.

“Hey,” you say, tense around the shoulders. Who knows if you should already be gone, if he’s going to ask you to leave, if he’s going to be mad that you’re still here.

“Hey,” is all he says back, neutral toned, then he hauls himself half upright and stretches. “How d’you feel?”

“Fine. Sore.”

“Hungry?”

“... For dick..?” You squint at him.

He stares at you for a few seconds, eyebrow slowly raising. “I know you eat food.” He says it like he’s debating how likely it is that you’re a vampire and coming up  _ very likely. _

“Ah. Yeah. Uh… kind of.” You’re sort of always hungry.

“Taco Bell?”

“Sure.”

* * *

 

Around 9:30 you text Dave.

TT: Morning.

You don’t get a text back for another hour and forty-five minutes, which (you think) is pretty telling.

DL: shiiiiiiit is it

DL: time to go to sleep for another

DL: uh

DL: hour

TT: Forty-five minutes. 

DL: getting up AT noon is almost as bad as getting up before noon dude 

DL: it might even be worse

DL: for a seasoned player like me its definitely damaging to my reputation

DL: how long have you been up

You… have no idea why he would ask that.  _ To know _ would technically be an answer but your history with Dave asking you questions is… bad. To say the least.

TT: A while.

DL: oooooo spooky

TT: Shut up. Since like… 4:30-5

DL: whaaaaaaat the fuck

DL: how are you gonna stay up all night w me

The implications of that are nice, and you’re not sick of Dave  _ yet. _ You still want to spend as much time with him as possible (in an addictive way) but… Fuck, that sounds awful. You’re tired to begin with, but given the fact that you’ve been spending time around people non-stop since Thursday?  _ Ugh.  _ Not up for catering to Dave’s whims unless you don’t have to move or speak to do so.

TT: As long as you don’t mind your company not being conscious. 

DL: isnt that a kink

DL: wait i dont want to know

TT: I think it is.

TT: It was a joke. I might not be able to sleep, anyway. It’s cool.

DL: why not

TT: Sleeping issues. I’ve always had problems getting to sleep and staying asleep.

DL: you usually pass out before me man

DL: sure you get up before me too but like

DL: were you just waiting around for me to wake up the whole time

TT: No. At most I’ve waited maybe ten minutes before waking you up.

TT: Which I think I did. Both times.

DL: well you def did the first time dont remember the second time too well i was half asleep for like all of it i think

DL: anyway

DL: are yooooou gonna come over now

TT: Yeah. I’ll be there in like. 20-25 minutes.

DL: awesome B;)

* * *

 

Derek lets you know that he’ll text you. When and about what you don’t know - maybe when he’s free again, maybe when he feels like it, maybe in ten minutes. It’s all he says when you leave.

The drive to Beverly Hills from Santa Monica is roughly twenty minutes and  _ uncomfortable. _ Your ass hurts, your thighs are sore; you’re wrecked physically and mentally. Honestly it wouldn’t have mattered much if Derek sent Dave pictures or not, it still stands that you’re going to have to deal with telling Dave that you’re fucking someone else.

It shouldn’t matter that much, you don’t doubt that he is too - it’s not like you’re in a relationship or anything, but you don’t know how to approach it or how Dave’s going to take it.

He probably won’t care. Or he’ll care, but only because  _ he’s _ not the only person teaching you how to fuck. That doesn’t make you feel any better. 

You haven’t resolved anything by the time you pull up in front of the Lalonde estate. All you’ve really accomplished on the way over here is making your ass  _ more _ sore by choosing a vehicle you have to straddle to operate. That’s not helping your situation. Neither is the backpack slung over your shoulder, the clothes stuffed in it, the bite mark throbbing on your shoulder -

You really should’ve gone home first. You should be doing this another day. This is bad - this is so bad. Your hair isn’t even styled.  _ Fuck. _

Taking a deep breath, you readjust the way your bike’s wheel turns and check the kickstand before heading to the door. You tuck a lock of your hair behind your ear just as the door opens.

Dave notices immediately that you’re not in usual form. He blinks at you a few times, eyebrows raised over his shades. “Hey,” he says, cautiously, like he’s not even expecting you.

“I came straight here,” you try to explain. Wow, those words grouped together sound  _ bad. _ “I was - uh. Spending the night at… a friend’s house.”

Dave frowns slightly. “A friend’s house?” A few seconds after he says that he steps aside to let you in. The phrase - and the tone of it - coupled with that action seem really… disjointed.

You step in anyway. 

“This. Guy I’m kind of screwing around with.”  _ God,  _ you sound like a slut. You  _ are _ a slut. It’s you. Fuck- Jesus you’re on the cusp of hyperventilating. You need to fucking calm down. “He’s really, uh. Not a romantic option.” Awkward pause. “Just like you’re not, I guess. He’s not. Super interested in that.”

You’re just digging yourself deeper and fucking deeper. If you keep going like this you’re going to end up crying or punching him or - fuck, fuck you really shouldn’t have done this. Everything’s over with Dave, now, all of it.

“Oh,” Dave says, delayed. “... Cool.”

He shuts the door behind you. Both of you just kind of awkwardly stand there.

Dave takes a breath and you tense, clench your jaw, focus your eyes down on his feet before you decide you need to read his facial expression. “Are you…” here it comes, here it comes - “Like… okaay..?” He says it like he doesn’t know how to say it.

Euugh, you want to fucking cry. You hate this, you hate it so much.

“Yeah.” Clipped, curt, too flat.  _ Fucking recover- _ “I’m cool.” Pause. Awkward. Not any better. Obviously you’re  _ not  _ okay. “Just kind of don’t know how you’re gonna take it. Obviously it’s worth mentioning, given…” you wave vaguely. Fuck,  _ stupid. _ “How shit is with us, I guess, but…” It’s hard to cast the emotion out of your voice. You probably sound passive aggressive as fuck saying all of this so tonelessly. “I don’t want anything with us to stop, and I know how bad it looks.”

“Dude, it’s not like you cheated on me.” He laughs. You want to say it’s not stiff, but - fuck. “It’s cool. There isn’t, like, a  _ no fucking other people _ rule.” Pause, there’s a hanging  _ but _ in his tone. “But,” there it is, “did you, like… use protection and stuff?”

“Yeah.”  _ Fuck. _ “Yeah, it’s all… cool. There.”

“Cool.”

The two of you just stand there nodding at each other for a minute. Dave scuffs his slipper against the polished wood flooring, you consider whether or not you should take off your shoes.

“Well, anyway- my turn!” Said with almost exaggerated enthusiasm, you wince despite yourself. “C’mon, I’ve got some plans.” 

He nods toward the stairs, pulling you along toward them and up to the second floor. He takes you the same route as last time, through the hallway to the left and into the garishly red-gold-and-black room. The bedsheets are already mussed up bundled in the middle of the bed. You tense.

Dave drops into the couch a few feet short of the bed, clicking on the TV and grabbing for a console controller. “Put your shit anywhere,” he says, “and take a seat. Kick back.”

It’s probably comical how slowly you move, tossing your backpack aside and toeing off your shoes. Like you’re expecting a laugh track from a live studio audience, or reality TV cameras to pop out from any corner. Slowly you sit next to Dave. He’s pulling up a streaming service and -

Playing an episode of Brooklyn 99.

… Okay.

You twitch as Dave pulls down a blanket from the back of the couch, watching him as he shifts his weight to smoothly and casually drop his body against yours. Wiggling to readjust himself, Dave settles with half his back and his side pressed against you, his legs thrown over yours. “Cool?” he asks, resituating the blanket like he’s expecting a quick agreement.

“... Yeah,” you say, breathing out and slowly easing your arms around Dave’s waist. It’s kind of cold in here and Dave’s… actually a really welcome heat. “... Cool?”

“Hell yeah,” Dave grins crookedly at you with half his mouth and both of you turn your attention to the TV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gonna be another update tomorrow ideally. i had to split this chapter up because it was going off into a... a lot.


	17. never ever thought id hear these words be said

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> promised second update
> 
> ive gotta condense these chapters at some point *sweats*

“Hey- Dirk… hey…” 

Blearily you open your eyes, stretching your legs slowly. Still sore… Your face is pressed into a warm pillow… - except it’s moving.

“Dirk..?”

Oh, shit. You pull back, loosening your arms and looking around. You’re still on the couch, the show on the TV is paused. The clock across the room reads 5:20PM.

“Fuck,” you draw back, pulling your weight back against the couch. Dave’s hand smooths down your arm and he laughs.

“Man, chill. You warned me you were gonna be tired. It’s cool. I just gotta take a piss. I’m sorry to wake you up, really.” He slips off of you, stretching his back before heading toward the entryway to the room.

There’s a rolling tray sitting next to the couch that wasn’t there before. It’s got some… stir-fried something on it. Rice? “Help yourself to that, by the way. If you want something else let me know and I’ll call up for it.”

Oh. Okay. So he… had his staff bring him food. While you were sleeping against his back. Fuck.

“Uh… okay. Yeah,” your voice drops to a murmur, more to yourself as you roll the tray closer and pick up a fork, rolling around the broccoli that it looks like Dave ate around. “Cool…” you murmur, idly picking at the food and sitting up higher. 

Dave comes back while you’re still picking broccoli, carrots and peas out of his leftovers. There’s a disappointing lack of bean sprouts - moreso when you actually  _ do _ find a couple. Dave obviously likes them.

Dave drops into place next to you and wiggles up to lounge behind you, moving the blanket as he does. “Cool with that?”

“Mmhm…” you hum your approval and move to make room for him, pushing the tray away and shuffling to lay on your back before Dave stops you with his arms around your waist. 

“Still tired?” he asks, nuzzling into your sore shoulder. You try your best not to pull back from it.

“Kind of,” you sigh back, shifting to get an arm around him, just one. 

“Wanna move to the bed?”

You mull that over. Your ass is still sore, probably pretty loose- God, you don’t want Dave anywhere near that but at the same time you wouldn’t dream of denying him. “Sure,” you agree finally. 

“Cool.” Dave sounds chipper; definitely up to something. It’s disappointing to come back to the realization that your relationship hasn’t changed. Still one hundred percent revolved around sex with a little familiarity mixed in.

You both fumble your way off of the couch, making your way over to the bed. It’s made, now, too - Dave’s staff definitely made their rounds. You crawl onto the bed and flop down on your back. If you’re gonna do this, you’re gonna do it missionary. He’s just going to have to do all the work.

“You okay?” he asks, crawling up onto the bed next to you. You puzzle about that as he looks down at you, wincing away as he pulls your glasses off slowly and sets them aside. The room is pretty dark, curtains drawn. 

“Yeah,” you murmur, “just kinda tired. Um. Little… achey.”

Dave nods, removing his own glasses and stretching to fold them up on the nightstand before he sits back on his knees. “Sit up for a second,” he requests - you frown but comply, struggling to lift yourself upright. Maybe he wants to -

Instead of going straight for your body or your clothes, Dave reaches for the head of the bed and pulls down the sheets. This is… different. You move to the space where the sheets are pulled down, lift your legs, and Dave tugs the blankets over your body before slipping under himself and getting comfortable.

Dave snuggles up to your side and pulls the blankets comfortably around his shoulders, urging you down alongside him with a tug of his arm around your waist. “Uhh…” you wiggle down with him, following the lead of his hold to tuck up against him.

“How old did you say you were, again? - I know you told me, and I’m kind of, like. I don’t know. A dick. I forgot.”

“It’s… cool. I’m twenty.”

Dave nods his head just above the pillow under it, his fingers worrying a loose thread at the hem of your shirt. “I’m thirty-three.”

_ Yeah, I know- _ would be a crappy answer. Let’s not answer like that. “... Cool.” Not much better. You hate talking to people. “Thirteen years older than me.”

Clicking his tongue against his teeth, Dave slides his fingers up under the hem of your shirt to touch along your stomach slowly. “Yeaah…” he breathes the word out slowly, over-drawn. “So… are you goin’ to college?”

_ Why is he asking this shit. _ You frown and shift more onto your side to face him, his hand sliding to your mid-back as you turn. “Why’re you askin’?”

“I’m just curious, dude,” Dave’s eyes are low, somewhere around your collarbone - you can see his eyelashes fanned out, this close. “If you don’t want me to ask I won’t, but like… I don’t know a whole lot about you aside from you being like, barely-not-a-kid and really good in the sack and sort of non-verbal and, like, skittish as hell.” Pause. “And that you’re fucking another dude, and that your name is Dirk, and that you use a ridiculous amount of hair product. But, like, it kinda seems like you know a lot about me? So - super unfair.”

“Price of fame,” you mutter as you process all of this, turning it over and over in your head. You… don’t know how to process that he  _ wants _ to know more about you, alongside the fact that he’s observed more than you thought he would. “I… I’m not. Going to college. I don’t really plan to. I dropped out of high school senior year.”

“Oh. Why?” Dave raises his eyes to look at your face proper and visibly recoils.  _ Ouch, okay, oops.  _ Apparently you need to keep a better handle on your expression- “I mean - sorry, is that…? Too much? Personal or something?”

“No.” You give it a few seconds pause before shifting your legs to curl one between his thighs, sliding your foot over his calf. “Given the nature of our relationship, it just… sort of freaks me out, you asking this stuff.”

“I… uh. Didn’t think you would… I thought we were kind of, like, sort of friends? At this point? I mean, I know every time we hang out it’s a lot of fucking and not much else, but… I dunno. Do- uh…”

“It just seems sudden.” You interrupt. You don’t want him to ask if you want to leave, or if you want him to back off or - anything. Anything like that. Dave flounders visibly, looking for something to say, but you press on. “I had bad experiences with school and I… guess I was kind of bitter about everyone telling me what to do with my life. It was probably a stupid decision, but. I was just sick of the shit I got all the time.”

Dave settles down a little more, pulling his hand out from under your shirt and pulling the fabric back down over your skin, smoothing it out with his fingers and his palm. It’s… interesting how he fidgets and the things he decides to do. “Did you get bullied or something?”

“Sort of,” you murmur, it’s not a pleasant topic to think back on. “Not really. More like they  _ tried _ to bully me.”

Snickering, Dave visibly gets more comfortable. His legs curl around your thigh. “Tried, but you wouldn’t give’m an inch, huh?”

“Pretty much…”

For a few seconds Dave just smiles at you, eyes crinkled at the corner. They’re such an eerily vibrant color, way more distinct than other evidences of albinism that you’ve seen on the internet. It’s… weird. Almost like they’re colored contacts: the edgy kind where you expect the pupil to be shaped into a cross or a cat’s eye. Gradually his expression softens, his head shaking as it does - like he’s discarding a thought. “So… Texas, right?”

“Yeah, Texas.” You almost tack on  _ Houston area, _ because it’s a big fucking state and that usually gives some clarity - but there’s a point where  _ answering questions _ turns into  _ over-sharing _ and that’s the point.

“When’d you move to Cali?”

That gives you some pause. Probably… mostly because of the relation from  _ him _ to  _ why you moved to California. _ Even though that wasn’t his question. “‘Bout… three months ago.”

“Oh.” Dave’s eyebrows raise. Evidently he expected you to have been here longer. “When you turned twenty…?”

“I turned twenty last November.”

“Oh shit, you can almost drink legally!” Dave looks at you for all of two seconds before laughing - apparently at your expression. “No?”

“I don’t like alcohol.” You sound kind of petulant - even you can hear it.

“Didn’t we drink together that first night?”

Instead of responding you press your lips thin and reach out to trail your fingers down his side, skimming your fingertips over the fabric of his shirt. It’s much softer than yours - probably a nicer material, higher threadcount, more expensive - maybe even  his sleep shirts are tailored explicitly for his comfort.

Dave makes an uncomfortable humming sound, legs squirming around yours, body shifting. “Sorry, I guess, about that…”

“It was my decision,” you shrug, leaning forward and very slowly pressing your face into his collarbone, tilting your head up to drag your nose over his neck. He smells ridiculously good, even assuming he hasn’t put on cologne or done anything other than roll out of bed before you came over. “Don’t worry about it…”

Soft fingertips slide back under the hem of your shirt, along your back as Dave’s arms both work their way around your waist. He rolls onto his back, tugging you with him to lay on his front. Opposed to Derek, Dave almost seems… small. His height is more comparable to yours, the width of his shoulders is slimmer - his waist is more straight, but -

Your lips slide together, unhurried with only accidental catches of teeth and dragging slides of your tongues. His arms are locked around your waist but not tightly, his hands spread to span the width between your shoulders.

_ “God,” _ he exhales against your mouth, sliding his hands around and up your front to cup your cheeks. “Do you - uh… wanna go somewhere for dinner?”

That throws you off. You blink at him a few times.

“Sorry, is that - I don’t know. I just kinda… I figured, like, that’d be cool? We, like, basically only do stuff in my house, so… I figured, hey, it might be kinda chill to have a change of scenery? We could always -” he huffs a little laugh, “we could always just move to a different room in the house, but. You know.  _ Boring.” _

“As… uh… as long as I can like, actually pronounce the shit on the menu.”

He snorts a laugh, shuffling up onto an elbow. Your thighs still ache when you shift them to either side of his hips. “Yeah, man. I was thinking, like… Outback, or something.”

“Yeah, yeah…” you trail off, barely allowed a second of dropping your eyes to Dave’s chest before he speaks again.

“Do you, uh… not want to? That’s cool, too, man. I was just, I dunno.”

“No, I just. I can’t afford shit, man. I - my -” you cut yourself off before you start going into how high your gas bill is going to be, how much work you’ve lost lately - fuck, you haven’t earned  _ crap _ this week.

“That’s fine, dude, I can like… obviously cover it. Don’t worry about it.”

Chewing the inside of your lip, you shuffle off of his lap and sit next to Dave on the bed. He paws the blankets down, sitting up properly and leaning close to you. “Are you-” he pecks your lips.

“Yep, I’m sure,” he scoots to the edge of the bed, standing up and stripping out of his sleepwear to step into some light-wash jeans. You sit on the bed, stunned and watching after him as he rifles through his dresser drawers. So… this is  _ his _ room. Confirmed.

The shirt that he pulls out is surprisingly normal; white, short-sleeved, and when he turns around you see it has the coca-cola logo stamped across the chest. Normal.

Slowly you slip out of bed, adjusting your sweatpants and tugging down your shirt. You’re confused and don’t know how to say it, but Dave’s dropping your shoes in front of you and wedging his own feet into a pair of brown sandals. You tug on your sneakers, tying (and retying, once) them up.

“I’m gonna go put some contacts in really quick, then we’ll go. Cool?”

“Uh - yeah. Cool.” You nod, watching him head back toward the on-suite as you reel, try to backtrack and figure out  _ what the fuck just happened. _


	18. make this last forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dirk's (second to last) good day.

As weird as his normal eye color may be, Dave looks about ten times stranger with blue eyes. You don’t like it, but you guess he is about ten times more recognizable with sunglasses on, rather than being suddenly anonymous without. Before you leave he tugs on a cap, too, which only really serves to make him look like a twelve year old. Again, an apt disguise in comparison to the  _ Dave Lalonde _ image; no one expects a softly smiling manchild when put up against the stoic “is he kidding or is he crazy” celebrity.

“Are there vegan options?” you ask conversationally on the way into the garage, where there are seven cars lined up. One you recognize from the night you met, which is the most driven - you’d like to think - and all the others are an assortment of cars that are just as nice - except for the three at the end, which are various kinds of more average cars.

Rather than an assortment of eye-burning colors, they’re all dull,  _ regular _ shades between green and blue. They all have unremarkable license plates.

“Are you vegan?” Dave asks, voice going a little high when he looks back at you, his hand on the door of a dull teal SUV.

“I’m poor, I’ll eat anything. I’m just making fun of California.”

“Oh,” Dave opens the driver’s door as you circle around to the other side, plopping into his seat seconds before you fall into yours. “Yeah, basically everyone around here’s picky with their food, huh?”

“Not in my neighborhood, but yeah.” It’s remarkable, you think as you kick around some things at your feet, how he owns seven cars and even the ones that he theoretically doesn’t use as often manage to be this cluttered. Frowning, you toe an empty fast-food cup aside and buckle your seatbelt.

He twists the keys already in the ignition, clicking the garage door opener. “You ever gonna let me come over there?”

“You wouldn’t like it, believe me. Way out of your comfort zone.”

There’s a pause as Dave backs out if his garage and drives down to the gate, you wave to Marcus but he’s got his feet kicked up and his focus on his phone in his hand - he barely breaks pace to glance up when Dave opens up the gate with another clicker.

“Are you… like… safe there?” Dave asks when you’re on the road toward Burbank. 

_ Is he serious? _ You squint over at him for a few long seconds before replying with deliberation- “remember that time I pulled a sword on that guy that tried to shoot you?”

Dave’s lips twist into a confused frown up at the stoplight. “Yeah - why’d you have that anyway?”

“I’m more’n capable of takin’ care’a myself. I’ve been living in a bad area since I was born. I haven’t needed anyone to protect me for- years. At least. If not forever.”

You ignore Dave’s glance over to you, staring straight ahead, but catch the way his thumbs smooth over and over the steering wheel rhythmically, back and forth. “Sorry, man, I was just askin’.”

“... I know. Sorry for being… snappy. And edgy.”

Dave snickers.

“That’s kind of, like, your  _ thing,  _ dude. Don’t worry about it. I’m used to it. Sort of reminds me of my sister, actually. Rose - she’s an author. A lot like you, except… a girl. And less tattoos.”

“I’ve read her books,” you clear your throat, glancing at Dave to note the realization on his face that  _ yeah, you read. _ “She seems… classier.”

“Nah, I dunno. Not when you know her. Maybe it’s just ‘cause I was there for her goth phase. Which, now that I think about it, she never  _ really  _ got all the way out of.” He laughs, tapping his palms against the wheel. 

You weigh your options for a moment, clearing your throat. “I met her, actually. My… my roommate, Roxy, has been talking to her. Apparently-” you stop yourself, clear your throat. “Apparently Rose is Roxy’s birth mom, and they’re reconnecting and stuff.”

Dave stares at you until someone behind him honks, he startles and pulls through the green light you’ve been sitting at, waving tensely back at the driver behind him. “You– what?”

“I didn’t really know how to bring it up. Or. Say anything about it. Especially because- I don’t know. I didn’t - still don’t - anticipate that it’ll come up.”

“It- I mean, that’s some pretty important shit? Did she say anything to you?”

“Well,” you squint over at him. “We talked. Mostly about Roxy. A little about me. Mostly…  _ proper friend _ screening.”

_ “God,” _ Dave murmurs, probably to himself. “You live with my  _ niece.” _

_ Yeah, just wait for the real kicker here, buddy.  _ Your stomach churns and you huddle down in your seat, reaching out to fiddle with the air conditioner. “Sorry,” you mumble. “Pretty awkward. It just… made sense to bring up, I guess.”

“You didn’t - like… say anything about us, right? I’m assuming not, but–”

“I didn’t. I haven’t said anything. I told Roxy not to… not to say anything.”

“Roxy knows?” 

“Roxy knows.” You echo. “It’s - kind of a big deal and sort of shitty to ask her to lie to her mom like that, but. It’s probably better.” 

“I- yeah,” he agrees, flexing his hands around the steering wheel.

“... Sorry…”

“For what, dude?”

“I don’t know - making it awkward. I guess.”

“Don’t be, Dirk, I kinda - I mean, I sorta started it, didn’t I? With the whole  _ let’s go on a date _ thing.”

Date.

_ Date. _

_ What. _

“... Dirk?”

“I’m fine- it’s. Cool. Don’t worry about it.” You swallow around where your throat constricts - feels like it’s closing up - and shove both your hands between your thighs. “Music?” you ask, clipped and yet more emotional than you intended. 

“Yeah, uh…” he fishes for the aux cord, hands it over to you. You hastily slot it into your phone.

“Cool, alright,” you murmur, trying to control your breathing as you pick a song.

* * *

 

The two of you step into the restaurant, Dave’s hands tucked into his pockets and yours hanging at your sides. “Two?” the hostess asks, and you and Dave nod. She smiles and leads you back into the restaurant, sitting the two of you at a booth with a few menus and a polite  _ your server will be right with you. _

“Jeez, it’s been awhile since I’ve been here,” he whistles low, you murmur your agreement as you look over the menu. “You wanna do appetizers or-”

“I want the onion thing.”

“Oh, okay. Cool. Onion thing it is. I’m there.”

“... Sorry. Kind of - yeah.” You lift your menu up a little higher off the table, ducking your head, and startle when Dave’s feet shift to cover yours. 

“Don’t worry about it, dude. We cool. No big.” Peering over your menu you see Dave set his down, flicking through the bar menu. You frown.

You order your drinks. Dave gets a water, plus some kiwi tequila something-or-other, you get an orange soda. The waiter asks if you want any appetizers and you also order up the giant crispy onion with the good sauce..

“We should get a cheesecake to go,” Dave says after the waiter leaves, having moved on now to browse the dessert menu. Slowly you close your own, scooting your coaster back and forth with your fingertip over the tabletop.

“Okay,” you relent, tempted to refuse him just to stimulate conversation or tease him or - something. But you’ve got no actual  _ reason _ to...

Dave’s silence carries a note of expectation, you think, and hell - you expect more, too. Okay? Just okay? Should you… comment on that? Press more into the cheesecake topic?  _ Fuck _ , you hate small talk. You hate talking. You hate working with people.

Sex is so much easier to handle, now that you’ve had it. Your body does all the talking for you, whether you want it to or not, and you and Dave have… have a  _ lot _ of chemistry sexually. You mesh well, it comes easily- but this…

You’re just not a fun person. As much as the idea hurts, you have to admit that without sex you wouldn’t have any relationship with Dave.

“You look really weird with blue eyes.”

_ Wow, nice attempt. _

Silence meets you long enough that you have to look up and see the shock on Dave’s face. As soon as you glimpse it the expression cracks and dissolves into stifled laughter. “Dude, typically people say that the red is weird.”

“Well, yeah…” you stretch out your trembling legs to brush your feet both against Dave’s ankles. You cringe at how the action seems almost  _ shy;  _ worn-soft sneakers rubbing up against his bare skin and stuttering in their pace with how awkwardly and tentatively they move... You feel Dave’s leg twitch under your touch and suppress a smile. “–but that’s your eye color. I’m used to it. Seeing you with anything else is just…” Helplessly, you shrug and look back down at your menu, rubbing your thumbs against the scratches in it’s lamination. “Weird.”

“Spend a lot of time looking at my eyes?” Dave teases, leaning forward and lowering his voice as he does. “You  _ romantic.” _

You clam up, saved only by the waiter arriving to deliver your drinks. Your soda is set down on the coaster you were spinning around and you nudge a coaster beneath Dave’s fruity alcoholic thing as it’s set down alongside his water. Pulling your feet back to your side of the booth, you stutter the beginning of your order when Dave quickly extends his feet back to meet yours.

Okay, this is just. How the two of you are doing things.

Dave waits until the waiter is halfway to the kitchen before picking up his short glass and swirling the straw to mix up the crushed ice. “Are you okay?” 

“What? Yeah.”

“You sure? You seem really… I dunno. I can stop, if you want?”

“Stop what?” you speak around your straw as you suck down sickly sweet orange soda, picking at the corner of your coaster between your fingers.

“Coming onto you? I don’t know if… it’s just because we’re in public or what, but uh… would you rather this  _ weren’t _ a date? ‘Cause I kinda… I dunno. I know I sprung it on you. I thought it was pretty obvious but I’m kind of… all involved in my own shit. And I know you’ve got another thing goin’ on.”

“D’you want me to stop whatever-” you cut yourself off as your waiter sets down the flared out fried onion, holding your tongue as he briefly talks to Dave- the whole  _ if you need anything _ schtick. “... Whatever with him?” You say the rest with your eyes on the waiter’s back halfway across the room now, turning back to an evidently stunned Dave. “Is that what this is about?”

“No…” Dave draws out the word in a way that only feeds your doubts, and it looks like he might be trying to figure it out himself. “No, I don’t want that. I mean, kind of? I kind of want that? But I’m not gonna ultimatum you or anything. I just want… I don’t know. I want to be closer than just… seeing each other for a couple hours while we screw around.” His eyes cast down to the pale green of his drink, stirring it up slowly. “I wanna talk to you about stuff.”

The thing is that you do, too, but apparently you can’t just  _ do that _ without the sex, the politics of maneuvering a relationship - you’re moving from something entirely disconnected to something  _ incredibly fragile. _ And, like everything with Dave, you feel like you have few choices if you want to stay in his life.

Dave backs off and gives you the silence you’re trying to project a request for directly out of your brain. You stretch out your feet to press against his, faltering and unsure as you do, and pick apart a quarter of the splayed onion to start dipping in sauce.

You take the moment that you’ve been graciously given to remind yourself that this is your brother. This is all that remains of your scope of  _ family _ and, honestly, you’re not so sure why you’re so driven to cling onto it. Your dad made sure, in the past, that you had absolutely no sentimental connection to  _ family _ as a word or feeling. Still he feels like he’s been  _ yours _ for years. Maybe even longer than you’ve known him, known  _ of _ him.

Keeping your eyes down at your mostly unused appetizer plate, lay your hand palm up in the middle of the table. After a few seconds Dave lays his fingers over yours, stroking ticklishly down to your palm and ghosting his fingers there.

_ I just want to stay in your life. That’s all I’ve always wanted. _

(Sounds like something a creepy, overly attached fan might say. Gives Dave reason to doubt your consent to anything and everything he proposes to you.) 

You have no words other than that for a long time, picking crumbs of the fried batter from the edges of the plate. You’re hungry, but tentative to eat much in front of Dave- in the middle of a serious moment.

“I…”  _ want to be closer to you - call your security services.  _ “Want to spend more casual time with you…” you murmur, keeping your voice low away from the other diners. “... And I’m okay with this.”

* * *

 

Dave has to slow you down partway through your meal to remind you that you can take the food back with you, you don’t have to eat it all in one sitting. It’s half embarrassing and half relieving; relieving that you can stop, that you won’t regret it if you do. Embarrassing that you insisted on stuffing to begin with, that Dave noticed it enough to slow you down.

“So - sorry if this shit is like, super rude. Feel free to kick me or slap me or something but - you’ve been… pretty poor for like forever, huh?”

Maybe it is kind of rude, but mostly it hurts to have it pointed out.

_ I had a few thousand on me at one point after I sold my dad’s truck,  _ you almost say, but you can’t bring yourself to bring him up with Dave. It’s his dad, too. And that’s… too much for you to think about.

“Yeah,” you say slowly, surveying the food in front of you and taking as deep a breath as you can manage before sitting back against the booth. “Always. I don’t do…” you gesture at the table. “This. I’ve barely been to a movie theater.”

Dave blinks at him, wide-eyed. “For real? That shit’s… pretty cheap, man. Why not?”

“Not that cheap. And…”  _ it’s not like I had anyone to go with.  _ Talk about pathetic. Amp this up to more of a pity date than it is. You reach for your soda and drink it down ‘til it’s just ice. “I dunno. Wasn’t much’a point. Let’s not talk about my downer shit?”

“I - I don’t mind, dude. I wanna know more about you. It’s not like there’s anything new to talk about with me. Basically everythin’s on the internet. Could tell you some stories about Rose or something, but…” he shrugs. “This…” he stalls on a word he doesn’t say before continuing. “-Is a lot more kind of me-centric than it should be, right?”

“Not a whole lot that’s interesting to talk about,” you murmur, almost to yourself with your teeth chewing around the top of your straw. Your fingers tap at the wood table, rub over the texture of the damp coaster. “What d’you wanna know…?”

Dave opens and closes his mouth, pressing his feet forward to hook your ankles and pull your legs closer to him. It’s weird - like he’s trying to hold hands with your legs instead. Or he’s playing. You’re really not sure at this point, this guy’s almost as weird as you are. “What about your family and junk. Did you move to L.A. alone?”

“... Yeah, I came here alone. I’d rather not talk about my family, though.” 

“Okay,” Dave looks frustrated, but you can tell that he’s trying to accept it. His hands wring over the table, he gestures to your waiter as he passes by and asks for some boxes for your food. “We also wanna order a dessert to go… but we don’t know which one, yet, so- uh.”

“When I come back with the boxes for you, then?” he asks, collecting your glass of orange soda and both of Dave’s glasses - from his initial kiwi tequila icee and the second one he ordered when he finished the first.

“Sure. Thanks.”

The waiter flashes a grin and leaves, Dave shuffles closer to the table and pulls over the dessert menu to put between you - awkwardly maneuvering around the plates from your dinner. “What kinda cheesecake d’you want?”

“I’ve… never really had it. I don’t know what’s good.” 

“Well.” Dave says definitively with raised eyebrows and a little bit of… offense? Outrage? “We’ll just get all of them and have, like, a little sampling party.”

* * *

 

When the waiter actually comes back to their table, Dave orders three of every type of cheesecake they  _ can _ and in addition to that orders a slice of carrot cake. You’re astounded; shocked silent all the way out of the restaurant  _ including _ the prep. and delivery time of your mass of desserts.

Your silence is broken when you reach the SUV, Dave strapping your bags of food into the backseat carefully - making sure everything is balanced and held in place with more care than you’re entirely comfortable witnessing.

“Can I drive, actually?”

Dave withdraws from the backseat and blinks at you a few times. He’s surprised, wasn’t expecting the question, but he doesn’t fight you about it like your dad would’ve. Instead he shrugs and unroots the keys from his pocket to toss to you. His aim is shit, but you catch them anyway. “Sure, man, as long as I get to DJ.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was GONNA edit this one....... but no, I'm not gonna edit this, haha. It just makes me upload slowly and have more trouble with my writing.
> 
> May not reply to comments for a while. Going through kinda a rough time. ):


	19. let me see your hand

When you get back into the garage Dave immediately heads back for the cheesecakes in the backseat while you survey the cars down the row, looking each over in a thorough glance. “You only drive automatics?” you ask, immediately wishing you hadn’t the second it’s out. Dave is looking up at you over the SUV’s door, bags gathered in his hands and door hip-checked shut.

“Um, yeah,” Dave says clearing his throat midway as he looks over the cars himself. He almost sounds embarrassed. “I don’t really know how to drive sticks.” 

Clearing your throat, you scratch at your neck idly - more to occupy your hands than to soothe an itch. 

“What about you? I know you do your bike and stuff, but… you had to drive a car first, right?”

“I learned on my dad’s truck,” your eyes close in the wake of this second fumble and you can practically hear Dave brighten up.

“Oh yeah?” he’s next to you now and you open your eyes, but look toward the door into the house- well, mansion- rather than at him. “Was it a stick?”

“Nah,” you wave him toward the door and lead the way in. From here you can navigate to the kitchen and you take him there to put away the leftovers. He trails after you eagerly. “It was automatic. I learned stick from one of my neighbors.”

“Oh,” Dave sets the leftovers on the counter, opening up the fridge to start putting them away. “Why’d you learn stick? Just for fun, or…?”

“He, uh…” you lean against the island counter, crossing your arms tightly. “Wanted me to drag race with him. For money.”

“Why you?” Dave asks as he finishes putting the leftovers away, tossing his hat on the counter and leaning against the counter with you. You look up at him, throat tightening at how genuinely interested he looks. Shamelessly enthused. It sends a shiver through you to see Dave looking… so much unlike what you’re used to from him.

The words fall out of your mouth. “Better to pay one guy to race and fix a car rather than two separate guys. I-I was kind of… I worked on a lot of cars for money. Less expensive than a mechanic you can’t trust.”

“So they trusted you a lot?” Dave reaches out to curl his fingers with yours, pulling you to the archway out of the kitchen. You follow numbly into a hallway you’re unfamiliar with, eyes widening and mouth gaping as the two of you pass what is undoubtably a ballroom. A  _ ballroom _ in his  _ house. _ With a stage and booths like a five-star restaurant. It’s a fleeting glance before he takes you into another room you’ve never been in: a split-level room half bar and half living room. The bar glows purple with soft grey and deep plum seating; another booth, a number of barstools.

“Dirk?”

You startle back to look at him when he speaks your name, blinking a few times and letting him guide you down two steps into the living room. It’s dark in here, but the purple glow from the bar seeps down and Dave turns on a soft light beside the plush leather couch as he tugs you down into it. “Um… what was… What?”

“They trusted you a lot?” Dave asks again, patiently. He skips subtleties and urges you forward with his hands as he leans against one of the cushy arms, accepting you greedily into his chest.

“Moreso they knew where I lived and nobody would sniff at a brutal assault if I cheated them.” You say this too plainly, too softly as you lean your head against Dave’s shoulder and his arms wrap around your waist. After a moment you let yourself hug him back.

“Oh. Well. You didn’t, right? Get brutally assaulted?”

“Not ‘cause of my mechanical abilities.”

“Oh. Well… why?”

_ I don’t know _ springs to mind,  _ for existing _ following shortly after. You shrug, the gesture delayed as you press your nose against Dave’s neck. “It’s just how it was. There didn’t have to be a reason.”

Dave sounds dissatisfied by that, his fingers curling into and through your hair. You’ve never really corrected him with that - how uncomfortable it makes you when people fuck up your hair - but at this point you’re not sure you ever will. Either because you don’t want to drive him away or because you just… don’t care as much. 

It kind of feels good, you’re finding. Rather than rough pulling and careless mishandling, Dave just rubs your scalp and twirls his fingers at the curling ends of your unstyled hair without tangling it.

“This is cozy,” Dave whispers, though the room and maybe even the house are completely empty apart from the two of you. You tilt your head up to the touch of his fingers tucking a curl of your hair behind your ear, closing your eyes and sagging your weight against his side.

You feel him smiling when he presses his lips down against yours and you smile back before pressing closer, harder up against him. “Yeah,” you mumble, smushed against his lips. Your heart throbs up into your throat as you wiggle against the cushy leather, turning against him fully and sucking on his lower lip.

Dave makes a sound against your teeth, a hiccup of a moan with his hands sliding further back into your hair to knot at the nape of your neck. “Really cozy,” he pants between your lips, bumping your foreheads together just a little too hard when he presses in for more.

“Stop.”

Freezing against you, Dave’s temporarily blue eyes blink up at you wide and shocked, his hands pull back where they slid up the back of your shirt and his face crumples a little when you pull back from his body to sit between his feet. “Sorry, did… what happened? Are you cool..?” Dave asks, pushing himself to sit up straighter.

“Yeah, I just… I want you to take those out, first.” 

“Oh. Uh. What?” Dave asks, straightening out his shirt where you’d pushed it up a little, neglecting to fix his out of place hair.

“Your contacts,” you say, shifting to set your feet on the floor and tucking your hands between your knees. “I… uh. Your eyes kinda weird me out like that, a little?”

For a few long seconds Dave stares at you before shaking his head and smiling wide, leaning forward to kiss your cheek and the corner of your mouth. “Yeah,” he says, voice light and high. “Yeah, man, sure. Um. You wanna head back to my bed?”

You duck your head to hide the way your lips curve, nodding. “Yeah…” it comes out airier than you intended, but you take Dave’s hand when he offers it to you and the two of you both try to act like you’re not in a rush to get upstairs.

* * *

 

“Hey, so… like…” Dave is already shirtless, his eyes back to their usual red and his pants around his ankles as he struggles to paw them off with his feet. There’s a drawn out moment of frustration as he flaps his feet like an idiot, finally flicking them off with a particularly vigorous kick. Turning to look at you at last, Dave manages to keep his eyes on yours for all of two seconds before he’s looking away. “Um… I know this kind of thing happens basically every time we see each other, but I- you know I didn’t, like,  _ intend _ for this to- well, I mean, I’m not objecting. I like having sex with you like  _ a lot _ but I’m just. I guess I’m worried what you think of it? How-” he heaves a sigh hopelessly.

It’s flattering and jarring both that Dave is struggling so much with this, trying to get it right- if there is a right way. You have a feeling you won’t be able to stop thinking about it just as much as you’ll  _ want _ to stop thinking about it. It’s too much, just as much as it’s everything you ever could’ve hoped for in a…  _ teenage fantasy that shouldn’t ever have come true under any circumstances _ sort of way.

“It’s cool,” you say after a struggling pause. Dave doesn’t look convinced, even as you coax his chin up with your fingers and slip them back to his neck, guide him closer. “We spent the whole day together. Or… at least most of it. When I wasn’t asleep.”

“That was still nice,” Dave says almost under his breath, pushing his hands up under your shirt and pressing his nose just under your jaw. Your neck throbs where his nose presses against it and immediately it sparks to mind again that he’s only doing this to keep you. That he’s only doing this because Derek got a hold of you. Do you feel good or bad about that? It’s… nice to be worth being kept, if nothing else.

Speaking of. “I’m… really sore, though. From - uh…” Dave doesn’t make any sort of responsive sound, but you can see the line of his back tense, feel his fingers stutter against your skin.

“So… maybe we can try something different…?”

“I don’t think any different position is really going to-”

“No, no. Uh… like… maybe…” Dave clears his throat, pulling back from you with his eyes lowered, light lashes fanning against the apples of his cheeks.

“Maybe what…?”

You can see Dave swallow and instead of responding he leans in to kiss the center of your chest, pushing your shirt up far enough that he can kiss down to your stomach and press his lips against the lower curve of your belly-button. “Just… maybe…” he kisses where the softest bit of your stomach curves against your pelvis, rubbing his nose against the waistband of your pants, rubbing his cheek against your cock deliberately. “Like this…?”

“Oh,” thinking back, you didn’t get a whole lot of time to appreciate the last time Dave sucked you off and…  _ yeah, _ fuck yeah. “Y-yeah, sure.”

“Cool,” Dave slurs against your cock and tugs your sweatpants down, mouthing the tip of your dick as he wiggles them down your thighs and over your knees, struggles to keep his mouth on you while he gets you out of your pants. “I want-” he gasps, teeth grazing your skin and tongue cradling the head of your cock. “I wanna-”

“Shhh,” you decide to interrupt, hand shaking as you curl your fingers up in Dave’s hair and pull him forward. He goes easily, pushes forward to slide the twitching tip of your dick into his mouth and then the back of his throat. “Ffuck…” you sigh, curling your fingers up in the small swooping waves of the end of Dave’s locks. 

Dave plays with you; experiments with the ways he slides his tongue over your hot skin. The slick muscle of his tongue drags along the tip of your length, then slides over its body as Dave takes you deeper, sheathing more of you in slick heat. Your eyes flick between Dave’s flushed lips spread around your girth and the gossamer fan of his eyelashes against his cheeks. Those delicate lashes are a dull blond at Dave’s waterline, but white at the very ends where they catch the soft light of the bedside lamp. 

“Look at me,” you whisper and, before you think Dave’s even processed your words fully, those lashes curl up with his half-moon upper eyelid to bare his vermillion irises. You keen softly, wordless, and watch his eyes twitch with indication of a wince as you press your cock further back into his throat under the punch of sheer arousal through you. “God, you’re so pretty.”

_ Embarrassing, _ but the blotchy pink shading between Dave’s freckles deepens to a starker red and his eyes droop to halfway closed as he moans softly around your dick - vibrating against your skin, muffled by the obstruction. Too soon for you to really be impacted by that, Dave starts moving again.

He sucks all the way up to your tip, pulling back slow and steady before relaxing his jaw to take you back in. You flex your hands in his hair and spread your legs as if it’ll let you see more and more of him. “I can’t take it, Dave,” you moan when your hands are fully knotted at the roots of his hair. “I’m- _ mmnh…” _

Just like that Dave pulls off of you, licking his lips and looking almost regretful for a split second before he presses forward, kissing your slack mouth fervently and fumbling out for the night-stand. “I-” you manage against his mouth, slurred and with an unintentional nip at his already irritated lip. “I don’t know if I  _ can,  _ man… My ass is  _ so _ fuckin’-”

_ “Iwantyoutofuckme,” _ Dave blurts all at once, panting above you, hair a mess- you don’t even know what he said at first.

“What?” you murmur, confused and shamefully dazzled, rubbing your tingly fingers up and down Dave’s chest while you try to stop yourself from rutting up against thin air in an attempt for friction.

“I… want you to…” Dave clears his throat, eyes shifting away to the bottle of lube in his right hand as if he’s trying to puzzle out how it got there or what he intended to do with it. “Fuck me.” He sounds confused, almost. Quieted like he’s muttering the words to himself rather than proposing them to you.

“Oh.” Awkward pause while you process. “Are you… are you sure?”

Dave can’t meet your eyes when he nods, clears his throat and mumbles “yeah” under his breath. “I’m sure…”

_ It might not be very good, _ you want to warn,  _ I’ve never done that before. I’m already pretty close to coming. _ It’s calming down. It just needs a little time and Dave’s still going to need you to…

To…

“Okay.”

Dave blinks at you a few times. “R-really?”

“Yeah, man, I… hell yeah. Let’s do this.” You reach out for the bottle in his hands, pressing yourself up on an elbow to get level enough with Dave to kiss him, greedy and dirty but slower and… nicer. Nicer than with Derek. “How d’you wanna do this? On your back? On your front? Like this?”

“On…” Dave stutters, clears his throat. “On my back.” Demonstratively he flops over next to where you’d just been laying before you pull yourself up in his place. Dave shuffles into position and clears his throat, watching you work yourself fully out of the rest of your clothes, slowly rolling his boxer-briefs down his thighs. “Are you sure you’re- you’re cool with this? We don’t- I know it’s…”

“I’m cool.” Dave nods, blinking up at you as you pull his boxers the rest of the way off of his foot. His face is a flushed mess, his eyes are wide, his hair is wild, you think you’re in love with him. “You’re gorgeous…” Your voice is quiet and cracking against his mouth as you press your lips against his, clumsily coating your fingers with lubricant and dropping the bottle carelessly at Dave’s hip just to get your fingers against his hole as quick as possible.

The laugh Dave pants right up against your lips is nervously hysterical, simultaneously forced and out of his control. “What?” he asks, like what you said was completely nonsensical. “I’m-”

_ “Gorgeous,” _ you reassert. Dave can’t respond, too busy choking with your fingertip pressing against his hole, rubbing in circles and slowly easing into him with gentle pressure then shallow thrusts.

“I-” he’s trying, you’ll give Dave that. He lolls his head back against the pillows and shakily- shyly- spreads his legs open to make room for you to ease down between them and kiss along his shoulder. Dave, you can tell, is staring up at the mirror above you as he wraps his arms around your waist and you start easing a second finger into him. 

For some reason you’d assumed that most of Dave’s reason for having a mirror up there was vain, narcissistic, but now you have a sneaking suspicion that it’s largely because of how absorbed in sex he is. It’s  _ your _ back he wants to look at,  _ your _ body on top of his, and the act that he wants to fully immerse himself in. It does confirm your suspicions on one front, though: Dave likes to be on the bottom.

“You’ve–” Dave’s voice hitches up as your lips fit to his throat and suck, worrying deep marks into his skin. “Yooou’ve…  _ ah, _ never done this, right…?”

Humming against his skin, you rock your fingers deeper into him and stretch him around your knuckles, spreading your fingers wide where they get knobby and crooking the tips up. Breaking away from his throat, you look down at Dave and smile as he drops his eyes from the mirror immediately, looks away from  _ you, _ too, and off to the side instead. “Fingered someone other than myself? You’re my first.”

“You ha-aven’t, like, fucked someone else either. Right?”

“In the strict, literal sense? No.”

Dave wets his lips and hesitates to speak - if he’s planning to again at all - long enough that you lean into the temptation and coax his tongue to your lips instead. You slip a third finger inside of him and Dave writhes under you, arms wrapping around your shoulders more tightly and tugging you down against him until kissing is uncomfortable. You break away, press your lips to his neck and his shoulders instead. “Ff-fuck me,” Dave wheezes, lifting his hips to rub his cock up against your belly.  _ “Fuck me, _ Dirk- fuck,  _ please.” _

“Y-yeah,” you falter, tempted to deny him as you slowly ease your fingers out of him. His nose bumps against your hairline, hand lifting to curl into your hair and hold tightly. Dave  _ vibrates _ with desperation under you and- and  _ fuck, _ you can’t. Reaching for the lube again you pour way too much into your palm and sloppily slick up your cock. Dave shivers and squirms with every audibly wet pass of your hand over your length. You don’t even need to try to tease him: he does it well enough himself.

Despite himself, Dave manages to stay quiet and patient until you press the head of your cock against his hole and  _ God _ is he freaking out. The rim of his hole squeezes down and loosens just around the barest tip of your cock - you’re not even inside him yet and you’re not sure you can handle it. “Chill,” you clip against his jaw, more harsh than you really intended.  _ Soothing _ would’ve been better, some comforting words about how Dave should chill the fuck out because you’re not even inside of him yet- 

Mostly it comes out annoyed.

“Sorry,” Dave gasps, legs shaking only more as Dave visibly tries his best to relax. The hand that isn’t caught up in your hair slides down your back; rubbing like he’s trying to comfort  _ you _ while it’s entirely self-soothing. 

You press into him, reeling and panting as his slick warmth envelopes you. “Y-you’ve… I-” your breath hitches out of your control, your hands sliding down to Dave’s hips to hold him steady as you press into him slowly, trying to feel out when it’s appropriate to give Dave more time to adjust, when you should speed up or slow down or stop or keep going- “I-I’ve got you…” 

In all your fumbling you expected Dave to give you some help, maybe take control, maybe wrap his legs around you and make you do whatever he needs- flip you over and ride you, at his most controlling. Dave’s older than you, certainly more seasoned in all of  _ this _ and he knows what he wants, what he needs.

Except… it almost seems like he doesn’t. Dave seems as lost as you; holding onto your back, your hair, your neck, as he pants into your shoulder and keens softly when you ultimately decide to push your whole length into him.  _ “Ffffuck…” _ he moans, drawn out with his long eyelashes fluttering against your skin. 

_ “God,” _ you reply, urging Dave’s legs around your hips and digging your fingertips into his thighs. He’s so responsive, skin twitching under the harsh pressure of your hands and the slightest scrape of your jagged nails. Dave starts moving against you, but he only does so timidly with the slightest push of his hips against yours and a shy pull away as he tries with stuttering motions to ride your dick.

You pat his thigh hard in mockery of a spanking, breathing hard as you stretch your body comfortably over his and thrust into him sharply without pulling out far. Dave gasps, hand fumbling over your skin,  _ “Dirk.” _

“Got you,” you whisper back, your arms bracketing his shoulders and fingers burying into his silky hair. More fluidly you move against him, caving into it with only subconscious care for rhythm. 

_ “Please…” _ Dave coaxes your chin up with the heel of his palm, panting against your lips and kissing between and through and around his mantra-  _ “pleasepleaseplease…” _

* * *

 

“Can…” Dave’s voice starts at a regular register before it quiets shyly, maybe-shamefully. “Can it stay that way?”

“Can what stay what way?” you murmur back into Dave’s hair, your hands barely stalling against Dave’s chest and his arm when he wiggles and squirms, getting comfortable and pulling the mass of blankets up to both your shoulders.

“That…” Dave hesitates, clearing his throat and resettling his head under your chin. “... That you don’t… that I’m the only one you’ve ever… uh… put your dick in.”

“...” you press your lips thin to keep from laughing. “Eloquently put, Dave.”

Dave half-sighs, half-grumbles and you can feel him frown against your collar. “How am I s’pposed to put it, dude?  _ Would you please honor me with the- _ the, uh… the…  _ privilege of being the only one that you relate with in this manner. _ Fucking bullshit. Just- just tell me you’ll only fuck me. Or-or that you won’t. I dunno.”

“I’d’ve thought you’d be partial to making sure you’re the only one that gets my ass, man.”

“Well I already kind of missed out, there.” 

You’re tempted to point out that he’s pouting about it, but… it seems like a sensitive topic. At least, you guess, Dave isn’t telling you that you can’t fuck other people. Realizes how unfair that is, maybe. “Okay,” you say finally. “Sure. It’s kinda… I dunno. But sure.”

“Kinda what?” Dave asks, less offended and more… nervous.

“Forget about it, it’s not important. I’m cool with it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> end of this chapter got a little clunky because i've got my fingers in another multi-chapter thing i wanna work on.
> 
> aaaalso i started school again, so things might get a little shook up. apologies in advance. ;_;
> 
> thank you so much for all of the comments and supportive words! i really appreciate it! C:


	20. this house is fallin apart

Discomfort wakes you to stare at a white room. You take only a second to note the unnerving impersonality of the room before your attention focuses instead on a throbbing in your abdomen. It burns and pinches but mostly aches like nothing you’ve ever felt before. Maybe the time your wrist was sprained, but nothing—

Fuck, nothing like this. Nothing at all.

You need— _something._ Part of you reaches for a someone first, for Roxy or Dave or _fuck,_ you’ll even take your dad like this. Mostly your arm squeezes tight around what’s already available. Lil Cal.

Movement at the edge of your vision startles you into jerking away, opposite hand flailing out to the edge of the bed and catching - _fuck -_ something that stings like _hell._ “Dirk, hey…” Roxy’s voice comes only seconds before your choked, confused, pained sob. “Hey, shhh, it’s okay.” She sounds tired, voice worn like she’s spent the past hour either sleeping with a cold or crying. “I called the nurse, just don’t move too much, okay?”

“What’s going on?” you ask, cringing at how close your voice is to a whimper. How hard you’re clutching Cal. _You’re such a fucking baby, just figure out what’s happening-_

“Your meds are wearing off, that’s all. It won’t get much worse and the nurse is gonna come give you some more, okay?” Roxy talks patiently but something in her voice gives off a vibe like she’s reading off a script. Her fingers comb through your hair, shaking - that feels real. More real. You lean into her touch.

“What- what meds?”

“You’re…” Roxy hesitates, you see her eyes flick toward the corner of the room even in the dark. “You’re in the hospital, okay? You-” her breath hitches, words and rhythm faltering hard. “Y-you got… g-got attacked while you were leaving work. You don’t remember that?”

Shaking your head in place of the words you can’t find, your horror only deepens when Roxy’s face openly bares that she expected this. She even nods to herself, laying her hand over yours where it clutches Cal’s chest.

“W-what day is it?”

“Tuesday. Wednesday, technically… Wednesday morning.”

You’ve lost two days. Nothing from Tuesday, barely anything from Monday - you kind of remember, maybe, Monday morning when you left. Dave was texting you about… something. “Is—” you’re looking around for your phone now, taking in more of the room as you do. The IV stuck in your hand, the rumpled blankets in the couch by the curtained window. “Is it a- a h-head injury thing?”

“It’s… a trauma thing, I think.” Roxy sits beside you and reaches back behind your bed, fishing out a clear bag containing your phone, your wallet, and your beat up shoes. You’re reeling as you look down at the contents, numbly taking your phone as Roxy hands it to you and nearly dropping it. “The nurses said you wouldn’t remember anything from the other times you woke up, probably. You were… you were in a lotta pain.”

Your phone is off but it turns on easily. It’s not dead, at least.

Already your head is starting to spin with the potential expenses. You’ve never been to a hospital and even if you had a big reason to go you’d never be able to… to even come close to affording… _Potentially life-saving surgery._

The nurse comes in and you don’t acknowledge him. After they both say your name Roxy takes over talking for you, her hand covering yours again, coaxing it to hold Cal’s stomach. You’re tempted to bury your fingers straight into him where you feel your own pain and imagine the feeling of someone’s fingers shoving in-in where your skin feels weak. You can almost feel it, with how hard you imagine it.

With a few blurry, muddled words the nurse leaves the two of you alone again. You realize too late that he and Roxy sat your bed up enough for you to feel like you’re sitting without the pressure on your middle.

“We’ll figure it all out later,” Roxy tries after a while of being silent. Or… being tuned out. Everything feels like it’s ringing, so you can’t be sure she wasn’t talking before. You hear her, now. “How ‘bout I go get you some soup, yeah? It’s not too bad here.”

The words you mumble back don’t make any sense, inaudible and indistinct if they even _are_ words. You manage to nod anyway. Even though you’re not hungry. Even though you feel sick.

“Okay,” Roxy sighs, reaching out to carefully move your blankets and tuck you back in along with Lil Cal. “I’ll be back in a jiff,” she promises, kissing your forehead and hugging you like you’re fragile. As tight as she dares but so light you almost can’t feel it through the unfeeling shell around you.

The door clicks.

You have one text from Derek and a lot from Dave. The few lines you can read from Dave give you the idea that he’s nervous, upset, blind - but you put a blocker there and tackle Derek. Much easier, much easier.

DD: Get a hold of me when you’re up proper.

That was yesterday around noon. Nothing before and nothing since. Either he really doesn’t give a shit or he knows exactly what happened and you’re not sure what’s more unnerving.

All of it. Everything. Scary.

TT: Hey.

DD: Morning.

Barely a few seconds between your sent message and his reply. You don’t know why he’s up at 4am, but it doesn’t surprise you as much as it should.

TT: Yeah.

DD: We’ve got a lot to talk about.

DD: That’ll wait, though. First of all your bike is at your apartment. Your clothes were trashed so I threw them out. Your shades were wrecked. I’ve got your sword, they got your money.

TT: They.

DD: All falls back on your stunt with your Most Eligible Bachelor, babe. You’re shit at cleaning up after yourself.

Your sword pressed against a real, live person. The dull thud of a head hitting a wall. You were on a work call. You were attacked leaving work.

TT: Oh.

DD: Yeah.

TT: I can’t afford this.

DD: You’ve got options.

DD: Well. One option.

DD: Maybe none, if you can’t play right. Which I’d almost anticipate you can’t.

You don’t respond and for a while Derek gives you space to. You stare at the screen, blinking intermittently, until three little dots float along the bottom.

DD: Sleep. We’ll talk more in person. Roxy has my number.

TT: Yes sir.

You scroll through Dave’s texts for a minute before setting your phone aside and pulling Lil Cal up against your chest. It’s hard not to be tense, not to wrap your arms around him as tightly as you can. Your head buzzes on the brink, edging but not quite daring to verge into the topic you can’t separate it from.

Roxy offered to help you feed yourself, on account of how much your hands shake; you would say that you’re not hungry at all if that wouldn’t just make her more persistent, and hungry or otherwise you need to eat. For a reason that’s more logically in your grasp than it is emotionally - or maybe the reverse? You irrationally cling to your body’s needs even as the part of your head that processes shit panics - partway in overdrive, moving too fast, and partway moving at a quarter speed.

 _I don’t know what I’m going to do_ begs to your lips past your spoon, but you focus the work of your mouth on the mechanical delivery of warm soup to your throat and your weak stomach. You know exactly what you’re going to do, it’s just a matter of whether or not it’ll work. Whether or not it’ll be worth it. Whether or not it’ll leave you feeling a thousand times worse than you do already.

The latter is most likely. Almost absolute. A positive possibility.

Mostly you want to say the words to communicate with Roxy. To fish how _she_ feels out of her rather than just sitting here speculating. You want to know if she’s panicking just as much as you are, if she’s taking your problems onto her shoulders. You want to know for the same reason that you don’t want to know: so you can start figuring out how to fix it.

(You’re too tired to fix anything. You barely know what to do about it yourself, much less what you want Roxy to do.)

* * *

 

“Full offense, your place is a shithole.”

You don’t take any, numb with your arms wrapped semi-permanently around Lil Cal’s torso. The room feels like it’s rearranged to accommodate your optimal comfort and as convenient as it is you hate it. Even Derek, who typically seems unbothered by his expected contribution to the comfort of others, has his ass parked squarely in prime real-estate of your most comfortable viewing pleasure. You have no problem gazing upon his challengingly lax posture in the shitty wooden chair across from you, and it exerts no effort for you to shift your attention to Roxy as she bristles where she stands a few steps away from hovering _between_ you two.

The three of you had already sorted out Derek’s trustworthyness; pointlessly debated the creepiness of his availability- in the two hour window between when you were stabbed and when you likely would’ve been beyond saving- and his general helpfulness. Derek led the two of you- mostly Roxy- in cagey circles around his involvement before settling into giving up on the subject. Now the group of you are moving smoothly onto fighting about setting. Derek would prefer to cart you over to his condo, Roxy is set on protecting you at all costs. Even when you don’t necessarily need protecting.

“It really doesn’t fucking matter,” you diffuse, glancing between Roxy and Derek. “I really don’t feel like moving anywhere. I don’t plan on leaving the couch for more than shitting for, like…” the wind gusts out of your sails in a swoop and you lift on hand to rub the bridge of your nose. “I don’t know. Let’s just get through this.”

Derek grunts distastefully and Roxy lowers herself beside you, sitting cautiously at the edge of the couch and tucking the blankets around your legs fretfully. You don’t know if Derek’s expression of pure disapproval is based in his real feelings on the matter, or just how Roxy rubs him. Maybe a mixture. “You fucked with a gang, baby,” Derek starts as he rests his jaw against his knuckles. “Only big locally, all family, but just unprofessional enough to nut for petty bullying. Well-” his lips curl into a smirk of malevolent amusement, teeth bared at one edge with it. _“Petty bullying_ to my standards. More like…” Derek pauses to think up a word, clicking his tongue a few times before he comes up with something: “more-likely-than-not-fatal grudge-holding, for you.”

“So what do I do?”

“You? You can’t really do shit like this. That’s why _I_ usually avoid getting stabbed in the first place.”

Roxy snorts, eyes narrowed and arms crossed on her knees now. She’s lent in to listen to Derek, apparently not liking his tone at the very least. “It’s not like he ran out lookin’ for someone ta shove a knife in him.”

The longer that Derek stares at Roxy the more both you and her tense up. Eventually Derek rolls his eyes and you blow out a slow breath, worrying one of Cal’s mits between your thumb and the knuckle of your index finger. “If he wasn’t going to _finish_ what got him into this in the first fucking place, he shouldn’ta gotten into it in the first place.” After another pointed look to Roxy- which could say a variety of things, (among which: I don’t value your opinion, I didn’t ask you, shut the fuck up, I’m going to start ignoring your presence in the room)- Derek pushes himself up out of his chosen seat and stretches his arms over his chest one at a time. Despite the inappropriate timing, you take a moment to take stock of the way his muscles flex as he stretches; not sure if you’re intimidated, aroused, or both by that. Most likely none of the above. You don’t have the energy for it.

“As far as what you should do: quit your job, find another option. Not gonna tell you what, but I’m sure you’ll find somethin’. If not you’re kinda fucked. Non-negotiable, you can’t work where you do now. I’m gonna try t’clean up after you, but with this shit there’s a lot to tie up and it ain’t gonna be a viable option for you for a few weeks at the very least. Which…” Derek tips his head, pointedly eyeing the doll in your lap. You clutch Cal closer. “Obviously ain’t sunshine and rainbows for y’r predicament.”

Derek smiles. Like it’s a joke. You look to Roxy out of the corner of your eye to check her reaction. She’s _vibrating,_ but her attention immediately diverts as you fumble to push yourself up, sitting higher, straighter. “What d’you mean clean up after me?”

“Told you I used to kill people for a living.” Derek shrugs, says it like it’s nothing special to reveal to the room. You know it- knew it, prior, since your weird not-date in the park- but Roxy didn’t. You don’t like the worst implications you could conjure about the significance of that and hope that it’s nothing, instead. Not a whole lot is _significant_ with Derek, in your experience. Limited though it may be. “I don’t got a whole lot else going on, so I might as well. If only for some self-executed insurance.” A few seconds after those words are growled, you see Derek’s breath still then huff outward. The corner of his mouth turns upward.

You frown. “Pun-intended,” you guess flatly. Derek grins back at you and that… well, that makes you feel a little better.

“Don’t get into any trouble. You’re fragile.” Derek pauses, twitches a shoulder in a shrug and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “More fragile than usual,” he corrects, “so keep that in mind and don’t be a dumb fucking teenager. I’ll text you when I’ve got the time.”

Halfway saluting with two fingers that look more like a peace-sign than an official sign-off, Derek turns toward the door and whistles a tune as he makes his way out without pause for either of your approval.

* * *

 

“I only made a couple hundred this week,” Roxy sighs as she looks down at the wrinkled sheet of paper between you. Even all written out in Roxy’s round, curly handwriting the digits look like shit. Especially the ones that denote how much your hospitalization is going to cost you at the end of the month. If you and Roxy were _both_ working twice as profitably as you used to, you _might_ make it a third of the way to that number. Before you spent on food, bills, rent.

Silence draws out between you, broken only by the too-loud puffs of breath you both exhale every other second. It’s like the two of you are recovering from running two miles in ten minutes.

“I could call my mom—”

“No.”

Roxy’s huffing stops, you think she’s holding her breath for the few seconds before she exhales her response loudly, eyebrows raised, voice shrill- _“Why?_ Why not?”

“Your relationship is still fragile and developing. You don’t trust each other yet. For all she knows you could only be interested in getting her money and if you ask for money she might just stop talking to you entirely. It could completely ruin your relationship and you probably won’t get anything from her anyway. If she _does_ give you money, she’ll probably think less of you for it.”

You study Roxy’s face as she processes this, her mouth parted and her breaths coming tight. She wants to help, you know she wants to, but she can’t afford it. And you won’t let her sacrifice her mom for it. “I know you want to help, Rox, but you’re not in a position to help me financially. You’ve already been a big help. Driving me home from the hospital, taking care of me- I can’t ask this from you when you can’t give it to me.”

Looking down at the page, you reach for the pencil and start dividing things back up. You subtract what money you do have from the house budget, splitting the bills and rent in half again. “You’re a little short, you won’t be able to spend much on food, but you can manage. Just… worry about that, Rox, and I’ll figure something out, and I’ll…” you falter a second. “I _will_ cover my half of the rent and the bills. I promise. I’m not gonna fuck you over with this. Worst comes to worst, you’ll have to hunt around for a new roommate.”

* * *

 

Roxy cries herself out and takes a nap before she heads to work. She’s carpooling with Nessa, half because you can’t drive her and half because she already has Nessa’s car. You’re left in Roxy’s room, Lil Cal on your lap and Roxy’s stuffed animals cushioning your sides. The two of you were curled up in here, cuddling before she left. You can’t be bothered to move.

TT: Hey. Are you busy?

DL: oh my fucking god look who it is

TT: Sorry.

DL: im not gonna pull that crazy gf shit and cite read receipts or whatever but dude its been days

DL: like nearly a week with nothing

TT: Are you free right now?

Dave doesn’t respond for almost a full minute. The read receipt flicked on as soon as the message fully delivered, but Dave just lets it sit there. Finally three little dots float across the screen. It looks like he’s typing a whole fucking paragraph, but-

DL: yeah i am

-is all you get.

You send him your address with shaking fingers.

TT: Can you come pick me up?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm hoping to post another chapter by the end of the week, but we'll see how that shakes out. C:


	21. i want it real

By the time you hear a knock on the door and your phone  _ pings _ with Dave’s text, you’re already nauseous. It helps, you guess, that you already feel weak and pathetic as you slip out of Roxy’s bed with Lil Cal tucked against your chest. Even if you had to, you don’t think you could manage to act like nothing’s wrong with your body or the way you live. Thankfully-  _ (haha)- _ that’s not what you have to do. In fact, you have to do the exact opposite.

You deny the impulse to fix your hair before you open the door, easing it ajar to look out at Dave where he stands on the landing outside. He looks out of place there, even blue-eyed with his hair fucked up, wearing an unbuttoned, red plaid shirt over a plain pink T. Dave looks so normal. Which is the wrong disguise for this part of L.A.

“You…” Dave stalls as he looks you over, eyes lingering over Cal with a furrow to his brows. You clutch the puppet defensively tighter and Dave’s eyes snap back up to yours. “You. Look like shit,” he finishes. You nod and step aside, opening the door a little wider.

_ Part _ of you is offended that Dave hesitates before he politely smiles and enters. You know your apartment’s shitty. Gritty, dirty, small- nothing like what he’s used to. But Dave asked to see it. You can’t help the way you live. And… maybe it’s going to help you out, here.

That thought alone pushes another wave of nausea and you briefly take a second to think about whether or not you ate before you took your meds earlier. You’ve honestly never had the opportunity to get your hands on Hydro, so you’re not too sure how it’s going to affect you… Only that you’re going to need to pay for more after your fifteen doses are up.

_ I need help,  _ you start to rehearse in your head as you watch Dave glance around, watch him eye up the torn upholstery. “This is it,” you say instead, gesturing around with one of Cal’s hands, your fingers pinched around his wrist. “For the time being.”

“For the time being?” Dave asks, eyes lingering over Cal- and the way you move him- before settling hesitantly back on you. “Are you leaving, or something?”

_ Here it is. _ “I’m having some… financial trouble.” Before you look away you glimpse Dave’s shoulders tensing. Your hands fist up under Cal’s arms on either side and you don’t even have the space in your head to think to apologize for squeezing him so tightly. “I can’t really afford to live here anymore.”

Dave laughs, tense and almost bitter. One of your fingers cuts in between some of Cal’s stitches to meet the scratchy cotton of his body- immediately you remove it, turning Cal in your hands to get a look at the damage. Not bad. Just going to have to restitch the hole. You smooth your fingers over it. “Are you kidding?” Dave is saying and you’re tugged painfully back into the conversation. “How much can this place cost, really? It’s- it’s-”  _ trashed, _ Dave probably wants to say.  _ A hole, terrible,  _ etcetera, etcetera.

“I don’t make a lot, Dave. I’m not… licensed to do anything, I-” you laugh, “I have to quit my job, too. I’ve got maybe another two grand in savings and that’s…”  _ probably going to go to meds or bills. _ You feel sick again. “I don’t make shit to begin with and I’m kind of in debt.”

“What? For what? What’d you do?” 

_ Of course Dave assumes it’s something you did. Some loan you took out. Some- shit decision.  _ You laugh back and it hurts emotionally and physically. “I got stabbed, I guess. The thing about life-saving surgery is they don’t have the- the-”  _ fucking mercy to just let you die. _ Maybe you should be blaming Derek for that. You sigh heavily, stiffly moving over to the couch to sit down, tugging your blankets over yourself. “I don’t have any insurance and I’ve got…” After situating Cal in your lap, you cover your face with your hands to rub your shaking finger-tips into the corners of your eyes. “It doesn’t matter. I think you know where this is going.”

Dave is silent. You can’t look up at him. As much as you need to read his body language, see what he’s thinking, you can’t bring yourself to check. Instead you just elaborate, letting the words fall out of your mouth and stab you with every sharp edge to them. You hate this. You hate this.  _ You hate this. _ “I’ll do- fucking anything you want if you just- just help me out for a little while. Sexually, or- or whatever. Anything. You can fucking own me, Dave, I don’t care. I just- I don’t have any other fucking way out of this.” If you take your hands away from your eyes you think you’ll start crying so you don’t. You smother your tear-ducts instead, keep your eyes closed and your head down.

It feels like minutes that Dave’s just quiet. If you didn’t know it was impossible you’d think he’d just disappeared. If he walked away, though, you’d hear the floorboards creak and the rusty hinges of the door opening. Instead there’s nothing. Just quiet.

Finally Dave takes a breath you can hear, holds it, then exhales. “Move in with me.”

Predictably, when you take your fingers off your eyes a few tears gather up in your waterline and trickle over. You look up, almost too confused to care that you’re crying. Dave is stiff, jaw set, shoulders tense, arms crossed. “What?”

“You said you’d do anything,” Dave’s voice cracks a little. You can tell he’s trying to be… bitterly uncaring, disconnected, but he doesn’t wear it well. He’s pissed, sure, but… there’s something else that you don’t even know how to identify there. “So move in with me. Pack up your-your crap, here, and… move in with me. I want you to live with me.”

_ Oh God. _ Honestly, you weren’t expecting him to take it by any stretch of the imagination. You were only asking for the sake of exhausting your only option- (well, only option before you sold yourself to someone else or- fuck)- but he is. He took it. He.

“O-o-kay.” You’re actually crying now,  _ really _ crying, so much that it pulls the stitches holding your stomach together. “Why? W-why that?”

“I thought this was, like, a no-questions-asked, deal. ‘Cause I’m not gonna argue with you about why I wanna do whatever I wanna do with you. I’m not- I expect you to just do it.” Dave sounds nothing like himself, now, and almost everything like  _ David Lalonde  _ if not for the stammering. He’s right smack back to when you met him in that club. 

You may be moving in with him but, as predicted, whatever relationship you built is ruined. You don’t blame him. Not one bit. But it still hurts. 

“Yessir,” you manage, wiping your tears off on your wrists. Dave is staring at you silently, hard, and as your skin prickles with the intensity of his recolored eyes you get the feeling you’re doing something wrong. You drop your eyes again after glancing up at him. “What..?”

“Uh, now? I’ve got a car waiting outside.”

“Oh.” You stand, arms fidgeting around Cal before you settle on holding him around his waist, letting his long limbs dangle at your side as you rush yourself back to your bedroom. 

Cal is the first in your bag - the same one you brought all of your stuff in on the way up here. The money you have saved is shoved in after once you untape it from under your dresser, only then do you start shoving in clothes.

You probably won’t be able to fit everything. You had to sacrifice things when you moved from Texas, you’ll have to sacrifice things now. At least they’ll go to Roxy instead of strangers.

_ Roxy. _ What the fuck are you going to tell her? It’ll take her a while to get a new room-mate, and  _ God  _ what if she gets a bad one? What if she gets a different guy that isn’t like you? One that’s going to be a creep that’ll either hurt her or get her in trouble if she knocks his lights out.  _ Fuck- _ you don’t even know how to explain this. She’s going to be- she’s probably not going to be mad, but she’ll- she’ll be upset.

You don’t even know if you’ll be able to help her with- fuck, anything from her emotional well-being to the bills. 

Is Dave going to pay for anything else for you, or just the medical costs? Fuck- what about Rose? What’s Roxy going to tell her about this, how’s  _ Dave _ going to handle this? 

Your pill bottles go in second to last, and you pause as you look down at the next thing. Your sword. Derek had gotten this back to you with your bike. It was probably strapped right to your back when everything happened. You’ve been carrying this piece of shit around like it was actually going to do you any good and- fuck, all it’s done is hurt you. Point out what a wimpy fucking poser you are. You’re such a fucking pussy. You’re a shitty fucking crybaby and you’ve spent your whole life trying to pretend otherwise but it’s been obvious all along. Obvious to everyone.

You’re worth nothing. You’re just a freak. Dave may be acting cold but he’s doing you a fucking favor in shelling out thousands for some scraped up, bullshit-  _ piece of trash _ that isn’t worth a cent of it. 

“Dirk!”

You snap to attention as Dave calls your name across the apartment, snapping your sword fully back into its sheathe where it fell loose. A few seconds pass before you decide- tossing your sword onto the bed to stay. Fuck it. You’re not gonna be able to use it anyway.

You wipe your eyes vigorously on the hem of your shirt before you leave. You can feel the burn of the friction from the fabric having scuffed up around your eyes, rubbed it raw. No disguising it. Just like fucking always. You honestly might as well break down right in front of him- haha,  _ again- _ but there’s still that defensive part of you that says you shouldn’t, you can’t. So you don’t.

Dave is waiting right where you left him, arms crossed, twisting back to look at you where he’d been eyeing up some other part of the apartment. “Where’s Roxy?” he asks, voice softer. You think he just remembered.

“Work.” 

Dave pulls out his phone and frowns down at the lock screen.

“She works from nine to six.”

“Oh.” Dave follows you to the door, eyes hot on the back of your neck. You lead the way out and down. “What does she, uh… do…?”

“She’s a stripper.” 

“Oh.” Dave frowns and tucks his phone into his pocket, looking thoughtful as he climbs into the driver’s seat of his car. He didn’t have a driver waiting. He probably just wanted to get out of there as soon as possible.

* * *

 

After you get back to Dave’s place, he offered you one of his spare rooms and says that he’s going to go do some “famous rich people shit” that he doesn’t elaborate on. He shut the door tightly behind himself and he’s been gone for half an hour now so you figure he won’t be back for a while. It’s nearly midnight now and you’ve been staring numbly down at your phone for half the time Dave’s been gone trying to figure out what you’re going to tell Roxy.

You should probably call her. This isn’t really something that can be passed off through texting. Like breaking up, except you definitely want to see Roxy again- sooner rather than later, really- and it wasn’t entirely of your own volition. Well. It was. In a sense. But- 

It’s fucking complicated.

TT: We gotta talk about something when you get a break.

RM: im already on break whats up r u ok

TT: Yeah, I’m alright.

TT: Kind of.

TT: It’s complicated, I don’t know how to explain it.

RM: what happened do i need to come home i can

TT: No, don’t.

TT: I asked Dave to come see me.

TT: To ask him for help with this. Financially. In exchange for… basically whatever.

RM: what happened was he a dick about it

RM: are you ok did he fuck you up

RM: you know emotionally or physically or both or

TT: No. He, uh… said yes? Sort of?

RM: oh shit

RM: for real????

TT: Yeah. But it’s… conditional.

RM: is it a sex thing because idk if youre cleared to go around curlin into knots and getting a dick up your ass and stuff

TT: What.

RM: im just saying your organs are sensitive they had to stitch those up you cant go around having dicks poking up in there and stuff

TT: Jesus Christ.

RM: lol

TT: He asked me to move in with him.

RM: shit what

RM: thats like…. a lot

RM: are you like his live in boytoy 

RM: i mean id figure thatd be a pretty apt description unless hes like googly over you

TT: I don’t know what he wants from me. I told him I’d do anything for the money and he told me he wanted me to live with him.

RM: so whatre you gonna do

TT: I already did it. I packed up a bag and went home with him.

RM: what

RM: wtf really

RM: you didnt even like

RM: dirk

TT: He didn’t really give me an option.

TT: I mean. He did, but the options were “do it” or “don’t get my money.”

RM: jfc dirk i

RM: wtf am i supposed to do 

RM: like i know thats pretty selfish and its super good that hes gonna pay for stuff if he does but 

TT: No, I get it.

RM: r u sure or is that like the selfhatey jon snow voice johnny cashs hurt type of “i get it”

TT: I think your image of me in this scenario might be more appropriately fitted to Nine Inch Nails’s version of Hurt.

RM: maybe i just like the johnny cash version better

TT: I get it, Roxy. It’s not selfish. I know this is… a lot. To say the least.

RM: are you allowed visitors or is this some princess dragon castle bs

TT: That’s a good question, I haven’t asked.

RM: kinda the weirdest way to meet my uncle but im gonna come over after my shift

TT: He’ll probably be asleep. And if not, he should be.

RM: tbh i wanna see you more than him so thats fine

TT: Get some sleep, first, Roxy. It’ll be better for the whole situation.

RM: :( 

TT: I’ll talk to him, we’ll get you over here tomorrow.

* * *

 

It feels wrong to walk around this huge house without an escort. You feel like an intruder, and you’re not so sure that isn’t the truth of it.  _ Should _ you be walking around here without supervision? Dave probably doesn’t trust you that much. Anymore. Especially after you begged him for money. 

You find yourself navigating on the balls of your feet, tip-toeing and testing the floorboards under your feet. They’re all pretty quiet, and even if it’s not the case it makes you think of floors being torn out and replaced the second they start making sound. The whole mansion being releveled. So on. You’re not even sure how that would all work. It all seems out of your scope.

You descend from the third floor - where all the spare bedrooms are, you think- down to the second floor by way of the big staircase to the landing dividing two sides of the house. Dave’s room on one side, unexplored territory on the other. You go where you’re comfortable.

The hallway back into Dave’s room is dark and the big mostly-glass door leading into it isn’t much brighter. You open it anyway, give a slow look around. Dave’s bed is empty, the miniature living room at the foot of it is similarly vacant. His bathroom is dark, and the closet that takes up the other half of his room- (walk-in, ridiculously huge, has windows and seating and a balcony off of it) -is empty too.

So, Dave’s room is a bust. You head out, closing the door neatly behind you, and skirt across the landing to edge toward the other end of the second floor. You hesitate, steps slowing, and abruptly cut to head downstairs instead.

You check the other places you’ve been first. The kitchen- nothing. The dining room- nothing. The ballroom- nothing. The split-level bar and living room you had high hopes for, but they’re empty too.

Properly anxious now, you head back up to the second floor and consider going back into your room-  _ (you shouldn’t be out and about like this. He didn’t tell you that you could leave, so you shouldn’t have.) _ \- before taking a deep breath and heading toward the room opposite Dave’s on the landing. The wooden double-door creaks open under your hand and you crane your neck to peer in. 

It’s an office. Dave’s office, you guess, and if you’d known it was here it would’ve been your first choice. Your eyes lock on the desk at the end of the dim room, first, but skate to the side to lock onto Dave as he twists to look at you. He’s sitting in a large, black leather couch with a bottle between his legs. Body curled up tight.

“Hey,” you murmur, shifting your weight awkwardly in the doorway. “Can I come in?”

“Sure,” he mumbles, barely audible from where you stand, but you step in and close the door behind you anyway. Dave leans his side against the back of the couch and rolls his palms around the neck of the bottle in his lap, glancing up when you come closer. You hover, unsure where you should sit if anywhere. 

“Do you wanna talk?”

“No,” he murmurs, pulling his lower lip between his teeth and chewing on it for a while. His head tips back as he looks up at you, head laid on the arm of the couch behind his back. “Can…” he falters, frowning deeply to himself for a few seconds before he resumes. “Show me.”

“Show you what…?” you ask, curling your fingers into your palms and loosening them back up, over and over.

“What happened to you… What… whoever did.”

It takes you a few seconds to process, even longer to build up the resolve, but Dave gives you the time. Your fingers knot into the hem of your shirt and you pull it up your chest to show the bandaging from the various wounds sewn up across your stomach and your abdomen. 

Dave looks almost relieved by it. Raises one of his hands to touch the binding, skim his fingers over where you’re hurt. You can barely feel it but it still rubs you wrong, has you drawing back a step and dropping your shirt. “Come here,” he says, then, reaching back to try and put his bottle on the small table beside the couch. You reach out to steady it when it wobbles under his clumsy hand, follow the tug of his hands carefully to climb on top of him. He’s too impatient, tugging you where he wants you, and it pulls a hiss and a dry sob from your lips.

“Shhh,” he eases you down more carefully, ushers you against him and curls his legs around your hips to hold you close. “It’s okay, just get comfortable…” he lets you move, encourages you to until you’re not so tense and you fit against him more easily. “We’re cool,” he mumbles into your hair, pauses when you tense up as his fingers start to curl into it. He pets you slowly once you calm down, just holds you against him. “We’re cool… we’re cool.”

 


	22. talk some sense to me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well it's only one scene and it's like 2000 words but i got it out before the week was officially over and hopefully it's a good one. tell me what you think!

In a matter of days Dave twists and turns between distant and clingy so much that you have a hard time keeping track. You let him tuck himself away, partially because you don’t know what to say to him but mostly because you’re scared of what he might say to you. It’s not much different when he gets clingy; you let him come to you.

He’s usually drunk when he does.

It’s been three days since you moved in with Dave and today he’s managed to be distant for most of the day. You don’t know if he’s working or just avoiding you, and honestly you can’t be sure he’s been in the house the entire time. One of the many disadvantages of a house this big. 

Over the past couple of hours your hand has been getting looser and looser around your phone. Roxy still texts you with every second of free time she has and you try to keep up with her as much as possible but your meds fuck you up and make you tired. And when you aren’t on your meds you’re gritting your teeth until they kick in.

You should be able to handle this a lot better, you think, but frankly you’re taking it like a fucking pussy.

The tap of knuckles against your door startles you awake where you’d just been drifting to sleep, arm flailing out and thwacking the headboard with a dull thud. You struggle to sit yourself up as the door opens, blinking to clear your eyes more quickly. “Hey, yeah?” 

“Sorry. Did I wake you up?” Dave’s voice is a little slurred around the edges, unnecessarily quieted. Drunk. Clingy. He wants to cuddle.

“Yeah, don’t worry about it, though.” You look down at your phone and glimpse the last text notification from Roxy:  _ lmao sweet dreams dummy _ reading back at you. You lean to set your phone on the edge of the nightstand. “What’s up?”  _ You wanna cuddle? _ is on the tip of your tongue, and it would be appropriate, but you haven’t geared yourself up to saying it just yet. 

“Not- um… not much,” he closes the door timidly behind him. “How’re you? When’d you take your meds?”

You gesture to the tiny notepad next to the bedside lamp. “An hour or two ago.” You scoot over to make room for Dave next to you. He sits heavily, exhaling in a huff as he slumps against the headboard beside you. Every time he does this it feels like he’s trying to be  _ sneaky _ about it. Like you don’t realize that he’s here for attention. “Lay down,” you invite, settling properly into the pillows and feeling that tiredness sweep back over you. Dave only hesitates for a few seconds before he complies, wiggling down to your level and turning onto his side to face you. His restraint is good for a drunk Dave, but bad by almost any other standard and he’s immediately reaching out to you with a clumsy, sticky hand against your cheek. Pawing, petting with his thumb and his fingertips.

His breath smells like wine, but that’s better than beer or liquor.

“What’d you do today?” you ask, closing your eyes and lifting a hand to still his hand on your cheek.

“I dunno. I… called some people. Did some… got yelled at by my… my guy that wants my scripts.”

“Are you a bad liar or just really bad at talking to people?” you ask, sliding your hand down to hold his wrist. It’s thick and warm and kind of hairy. Usually Dave has a watch or a bracelet or some accessory on one of them, but you think he takes them off when he gets drunk.

“Uh… b-both, maybe?” Dave’s fingers curl, his breath comes in puffs because he’s holding it after every exhale.

“I’m not really one to talk,” you mumble, scooting closer and pressing your face into his neck. There are hints of his cologne still here, covered up by sweat and the wine staining the collar of his shirt but still there. Just faintly. Dave’s quick to cling to you given the opportunity, moving you around- overly careful but still bumbling enough to require you to hide a flinch- until he can wrap both arms tightly around your shoulders and hold you close to his chest.

If he’s trying to hide the relieved sigh he puffs out against your shoulder, he does a shit-poor job of it.

“You’re good… nice to talk to. Kind-kind of.”

“Kind of?” You’re more curious than offended. And tiredly trying to cling to conversation as you wriggle to settle yourself against him. 

“Sometimes- my sister does the same thing but, like, sometimes you’re really… I don’t know. It’s kinda like you’re trying to figure out what you’re  _ supposed _ to say like there’s some kind of formula to it, you know? Like- like an alien, kinda, but… I don’t know. Like you’re just mimicking people. Or… I’m dumb.”

“You’re not dumb. Keep going.” You like hearing his voice. Especially unfiltered.

“You’re hard to figure out sometimes. It’s…  _ super _ fucking frustrating, but at the same time like… if you weren’t I probably never would’ve made it past that first night with you.” Dave’s arms tighten around you and instead of just  _ holding _ you he’s actively hugging you.  _ Clutching _ you. Your eyes open but your face stays pressed into his shoulder. You can actually see the edge of that wine stain, now. “I feel like I’ve known you… or I was supposed to know you or some shit, all my life. Like- like some soulmate bullcrap, or something? Sorry- that’s weird.”

“I feel the same way.” You ball your hands up in his shirt more actively, rubbing the soft material between your fingers.

After a minute or two like this Dave sighs against your ear, turns his head to press his nose into your hair and follows with his fingers sneaking up the nape of your neck. You shiver. “At the same time I don’t know you at fucking all… I barely know anything about you…” He says it like it’s a terminal illness. Like it killed his mom. Like it’s the saddest thing that ever happened to him.

“Sorry,” you’re compelled to say, tilting your head back into his hand and clumsily brushing your lips against the scratchy stubble clinging to his jaw. It doesn’t all grow in right and Dave’s good at shaving to hide that, but right now the bow of your upper lip is pressed against his smooth cheek while three other places on your mouth touch rough, prickly stubble. Your arms shuffle around him, hands helplessly caressing his back in awkward drags.

“Tell me something,” Dave pleads, “something that matters.”

You struggle. Long enough that you think Dave doubts you’ll humor him. It doesn’t feel like anything mattered before he came into your life. Not really. Maybe it did, when you were little, but that stamped out pretty quickly. You open your mouth to say something- fuck,  _ anything- _ because you can’t disappoint Dave like this as much as it might make you uncomfortable to meet him for it.

“My dad… died. Like three years ago. I wasn’t- really upset about it. He wasn’t a… good parent.”

“I know…”

That hangs in the air for a few seconds before you draw back, pushing at Dave’s shoulder to put some distance between you. “What?”

“I mean-” Dave blinks at you, eyes wide and eyebrows high. “I- kind of figured? Like- you brought him up a couple of times, maybe, but you always got this look on your face like you didn’t want to talk about it or… like it was a mistake to bring him up. I sort of- I dunno. I thought it was because you didn’t want to talk about all of that with me, at first. Like it was a personal thing, sort of?”

“Well…” you settle down a little, still pulled back enough to keep some distance between you and Dave; not ready to sink back into his comfort again. “It is.”

“No, I mean…” Dave loosens his arms around you and shuffles to sit up a little bit himself. “Between us. I thought… I don’t know. You’ve always been kind of touchy about stuff. Especially right after the first time… which I can’t really blame you for, I was a dick, but… like you were always trying to keep up this barrier between us. You’re still like that.”

_ “You’re _ like that, too. When you aren’t…  _ like this _ you’re never around. You just… leave me here. And go off and do whatever.”

“Well. You…” Dave’s face screws up, his nose wrinkling. He looks away, hurt furrowing up his brow. He blows out this stressed breath.  _ “You _ pushed me away again. We were- we were like… I don’t know, I kind of thought we were  _ getting _ somewhere, and then you-”

“Asked you for money? I didn’t really- I  _ don’t _ have any other option.”

“It’s always like that with you!” Dave’s voice cracks and he sits up fully now. Before you realize you’ve moved you’re shifted back nearly a foot and Dave’s body loosens up- almost regretfully. “It’s always like that with you,” he repeats sadly. “Y-you… half the time we’re together- fuck,  _ more _ than half the time we’re together, you act like you don’t have any other choice. Like… like you’re  _ forcing _ yourself to hang out with me. And fuck like- l-like half the time I don’t know if you  _ really _ want to have sex with me or if you’re just… fucking entertaining me, for some reason? I try not to take it personally ‘cause I know at least a fraction of it’s about your dad, but-”

“What? Why would you say that?”

Dave stalls out, pressing his lips thinly together for a few seconds before he pushes himself to talk again. “It…  _ is _ him, right? He hit you, or something.”

You just stare until Dave keeps talking, voice slower and more deliberate now - like he’s trying not to slur. “You’re super skittish, man, and every time I move too fast or…- I don’t know, man, you just kind of seem like the poster child for abuse, sometimes? Not all the time, sometimes you’re good at hiding it or… fuck, man, forget it…” Dave sits up fully, tucking his legs into a clumsy pretzel and looking down at them. 

A few minutes tick by.

Dave’s visibly getting more uncomfortable with each one that passes silently.

“I want to keep you really badly. I’ve never… wanted to keep someone, like this, before.” You keep your eyes down even when Dave looks up at you, plucking at a loose thread at the hem of your sweatpants. “I’ve never really had anyone to try to keep, I guess, but… it was…” Clicking your teeth together you frown down at the tattoo curling around your ankle, pressing your fingers into the bottom of the bone, where all the lines gather up into a knot. “It was hard enough because it didn’t seem like you cared about me. Because you’re - you know. You’re a celebrity. I liked you before you knew I existed. We…” you huff a laugh, unable to help yourself: “We come from very different places.”

“... It didn’t bother me that you asked me for money,” Dave murmurs, reaching out to clumsily take your fingers into his palm. His thumb straightens your knuckles, the soft tip dragging over your callouses and rubbing- smoothing where your muscles twitch under your skin. “It… bothered me that you didn’t tell me what happened to you until you got out of the hospital. It bothered me that… I guess it bothered me that you didn’t think it would bother me?”

“I thought asking was going to… ruin everything.”

“It kind of did,” Dave murmurs, leaving your hand and closing up your throat in one action- but all he does is stretch his legs out, lay back against the pillows and urge you down with a tug at your sleeve. “-but I think it was kind of more like… you thinking that it would ruin everything ruined everything? You… were already so fucking confident that it was all over.” 

“That’s the kind of person I am,” you mumble when you finally get control of your body again. You ease yourself down against Dave’s chest and, this time, let yourself bury your face into him without care for subtlety. You breathe him in. “Things don’t really…” you stall out, grunt and try to submerge yourself in the scent of the fabric under your nose past the wine scent.

“Go your way?” You sigh an affirmative and this time, when Dave’s fingers sink into your hair and his fingertips skate across your scalp, you’re  _ aware _ of how you stiffen involuntarily. You’re aware of how his hand stills, how he waits for you to relax before he starts rubbing circles, massaging your head. 

Like none of it happened Dave drags you flush up against him and tugs the blankets up around your shoulders. His fingers rub through your roots ‘til they get tired and rest limply in the mess of your hair; his arm loops easily, non-restrictively around your shoulders, and you settle in for a nap together. Or maybe sleep. It’s late and the lines between when you’re sleeping and when you’re napping are blurry for both of your schedules.

You’ve come down from defensive and panicked right into  _ secure _ and  _ safe _ in a manner of minutes with him, even when he’s drunk and emotionally unstable. You don’t have to spend hours floating between sleepy and alert, you don’t have to wait for sleep to overtake you because it’s practically already here in the comfort of his arms.

“I want to keep you, too,” Dave whispers against your forehead, so softly and so barely there that you’re not sure it is. Even seconds after you hear it you’re not sure if you  _ actually _ heard it, and you stir against him- body shifting, wriggling, grasping for something to pull you out of the sleep you’re half-sunken into. But Dave’s hand is in your hair. Petting, soothing, fingertips rubbing behind your ear and down along your neck. And that you know is there.

That you can’t doubt.


	23. got a bug from you but i don't need no cure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're back with possibly the best chapter i've ever written for this fic

“Mmm… where’re you going?”

Gingerly you detach Dave’s arm from around your waist and rub the back of his hand with your thumb. “Nowhere,” you reach for the nightstand, picking through the pill bottles and carefully dishing out your doses with a glance from the notepad to the orange prescription bottles. “Just taking my meds again. Before they wear off completely…”

Humming tiredly, Dave presses his face into your back and trails his fingers slowly up your gauze-bound stomach, barely touching at all with the very tips. Sometimes even that hurts, but right now it’s just the anticipation of pain that has you closing your eyes as a result.

“Does it hurt?” he asks dropping his hand and giving you the freedom to medicate yourself. You do so quickly, scribbling down the time and striking out the old one.

“No. Not right now. If I take it on time it doesn’t really get the chance to hurt right away.”

Dave pulls himself out from where he’s half under you, rubbing his eyes with the knuckles of his first fingers as he sits himself up entirely. “Where’re  _ you _ going?” you ask in turn, settling back where you were before and frowning up at Dave. He makes no effort to straighten his shirt or flee from the blankets, but he’s clearly waking himself up. “I’m done, man, it’s cool. You don’t gotta, like…”

“Shhh…” Dave hushes, eyes bleary and half-lidded, slow with sleep despite his efforts. He kisses you, smushes your lips together messily and pulls at the center swell of your bottom lip with his own - teeth hidden away, all clumsy lips.

Both his hands cradle your cheeks, holding like you’re something precious and fragile. It has you sinking into the pillows beneath you with ease, tension bleeding out of you, lips comfortably moving against his as he straddles your hips. Your fingers slide up his thighs and your palms curve to his hips, curling and uncurling to squeeze where Dave’s bones are cushioned more by fat than muscle..  _ “Dave…” _ you gasp between your mouths, shivering as his hands slide back into your hair and his crotch rubs up against yours.

The cotton of your sweatpants bunches up around your semi as he grinds, his own sleep pants balling up the same way as you both try to rut against each other. “Lemme…” Dave finally gasps, pulling away from your mouth and lifting his hips minutes later. His fingers hook into your pants and drag them down past your junk to your knees. Instead of going straight for the gold his fingers linger over the tattoos at the top of your thighs, following them up to your unmarked hips. His fingertips tease where your hipbone is most prominent, completely absorbed.

Sighing absently, Dave worries the edge of your bandages with his fingers and leans back in to press a shaking kiss to the corner of your mouth. 

“What’s up…?” you ask, your own hands idly busy where they knead the top of Dave’s thighs, your thumbs massaging the insides of them in dragging circles. It’s more mindless, self soothing.

“I…” Dave hums softly against your cheek, thoughtful, his hand finally wrapping around the base of your length and stroking up to the tip. “Mm… nothing,” he decides, leaning forward and using his free hand to shove down his own pajama pants. “Touch me,” he whispers, hands desperately trying to get the fabric off his body.  _ “Please...” _

Like always you have a hard time denying him, even to tease, so you drag it out instead. Your fingers stretch up to his hips and curl up in the waistband of his sleeping pants, dragging them down his thighs. The cotton catches the head of Dave’s otherwise bare cock and you tilt your head to watch as it shivers and twitches in the confines of that strip of cloth. “You’re already really hard,” you whisper right before the fabric slips off and Dave’s dick wobbles with the momentum. Precome is already beaded up at the tip and you free up one hand to collect it on your fingertip. “What’ve you been thinking about?”

_ “You,”  _ Dave gasps and  _ God damnit. _ He’s on top of you, kissing you like he’ll never feel anything like it again, waking mid-morning to fish this out of you, and you  _ still  _ don’t expect it. Not with the sincerity that he says it. Not with that urgency and- and… something else.

~~_ Devotion. _ ~~

_ He _ was your first and you’ve only slept with one other person. While he’s done this time and time and time again, accrued experience for  _ years,  _ you’ve only been at this for a couple of months. Now, if you didn’t know better, you’d think the positions were reversed. Dave thrusts against nothing but the air between you, the head of his cock occasionally bumping between your fingers, and he’s so desperate and out of his head you don’t think he can do anything else. When you cup him in your palm he settles the slightest amount and only drags his length back and forth over your wrist, seeming more focused in your hand cradling his balls than the actual friction he gets.

“Dirk…” he whimpers, quiet and pathetic, pulling his brows into an expression you might call pained. 

“Take your pants off,” you whisper back to him, kissing his cheek sweetly four times in off-center presses of the most forward purse of your lips. “Take… take everything off.”

Quick but reluctant to back off, Dave’s lower half moves first to pull away and his hands- which were already stunned (you think) inactive- relocate to either side of your ribs. He hesitates with his lips still close to your cheek before managing to pull himself back fully.

Dave strips out of his shirt with some difficulty while you gingerly twist yourself toward the bedside table and reach past your pills to the base of the lamp where a partially full bottle of lube sits. As soon as you’re flat on your back again Dave is beside you with his hands balled in the pants around your calves. “Can I?” he asks breathlessly, caught between a man pondering the meaning of life and a kid asking his mom for a puppy. You nod and he quickly but mindfully strips your pants from your legs and tosses them off the edge of the bed. 

“You’re…” you sigh, verging on  _ wistful _ as you look up at him with the short, thick, sticky bottle of lube cradled in your palms. Pointlessly you’re stuck on words you can’t say because you can’t find them, striving to say  _ something _ to him but stumped on what it is you  _ need _ to tell him. Something, maybe, to convey…  _ everything. _ Everything between when you were ten years old and now, right this very moment. Something to summarize him in your terms. But there’s nothing.

Of course there’s nothing.

You chuckle and sigh in a more defeated way this time. Dave smiles at you sympathetically, eyes soft and halfway pitying halfway… halfway something else. Appreciation, maybe. His breath catches against your lips when he comes closer and he wavers meaningfully without sealing your lips for a long stretch of seconds. He echos your helpless sigh and kisses you. Sweet, soft, slow and caught up in itself with his hands both burying themselves back in your hair.

Conversely you coat your fingers with lube and reach down between his legs to slide them up against his hole. You revel in how Dave inhales sharply against your lip, completely involuntary with his hips trembling over yours. You say what you can’t in another kiss, Dave’s lips hot and full and a little sticky against your drier, thinner ones. 

You stretch Dave on your fingers, pushing in first one and then another within a span of minutes that simultaneously feels like seconds and hours. If you were touching his dick you think he would’ve already came just like this, and he’d probably already be hard again, too. He isn’t asking for it, apparently more than happy letting you fuck him on your fingers while he kisses you dizzy. 

“Please…” Dave interrupts your kiss to gasp the word, one of his hands making it back to your cock. You’d expect him to tease you like this, only use his fingertips to touch you, but instead he covers your shaft with his palm and strokes you properly. “I wanna…” 

“Go ahead,” you decide, withdrawing your fingers after they’ve stalled out for nearly half a minute. “Can you..?”

“Yeah,” Dave breathes, holding the base of your dick and stroking it with only a back and forth motion of his thumb as he sits up over you, guides your head against his hole and presses you in as he lowers himself down your length. 

There’s a tacky smear of lube across Dave’s thigh when you grip it, pressing the tips of your fingers into the soft, hairy skin there. “Fuck,” you keen, attention blearily shifting back to Dave’s face as he pushes his hair out of it.

He’s a mess. Flushed red in bright patches all across his face and down his neck to the sharp line of his collarbone, down over where his body is sculpted rather than comfortably soft and averagely toned. He’s perfect. Eyes deep red and shining, hair licked up boyishly, mouth flushed and slack around a moan when he gets you all the way inside of himself.

Hot, half-lidded red eyes watch you just as closely as you watch their person. You do and don’t want to know what they see, but you hope it’s at least acceptable. You know it is if only because Dave’s erection bobs and dribbles over your stomach with every lift and fall of Dave’s hips and his thighs are shaking under your hands, intermittently trying to spread themselves wider - maybe to force you deeper.

You thrust up as Dave drops down, the resulting moan punched high out of his chest sending tingles out through your stomach. “Be careful,” Dave manages to say, rocking himself onto you  _ faster _ but with a more broken and stuttering pace. “Don’t-“ his rhythm stutters and stops as Dave leans down again, stops just short of kissing you again. “Don’t hurt yourself…”

Dave has to readjust with the angle but he stays bent over you, his arms crossed loosely in the pillows above your head. His skin is so soft under your hand as you smooth your palm up his thigh to hold his hip. “I’m okay,” you murmur, starting to try and meet him halfway every time. “It doesn’t hurt…”

“You’re drugged up,” he murmurs against your lips, kissing you and kissing you and kissing you through the near-pout in his words until he’s panting and gasping for air all over again- a combination of the kisses and the rhythm between you punching the air out of him. “Would you feel it if it did?”

“If I wasn’t drugged up it would-...” your hand slides over his shoulders and the back of his neck, you get lost in the heat and the texture of his skin for long enough you almost forget what you’re talking about. “If I wasn’t, it’d hurt all the time.”

“We’ll just have to go slow,” he whispers, one hand curling up in your hair and the other sliding down your cheek. “You- y-your hair is so soft…” he sighs against your lower lip and kisses you in a few short bursts, his body stretching under your hands to take you deeper, his thighs splaying wider with a shuffle of the sheets. “I’m-  _ mmnh… _ I’m g-glad you let me touch it, it makes me feel… special.”

“You are,” you whisper back against his mouth. Both your arms curl around his waist now and with every downward roll of Dave’s hips you press up inside of him. Every time the softest sound Dave makes has your heart floating up in your chest, and your body shaking under his.

It’s like this for what feels like forever. The build would’ve been slow, but instead it’s all more like edging; the both of you are so, so ready to come and you have been for what feels like hours, but instead you crest up into it and simmer back down over and over. Your palm is covered in Dave’s precome and you think your bandages are too.

When it happens it’s like nothing else. You’ve never felt it so strongly and it almost  _ hurts _ how hard it hits you. Dave’s rhythm slows and shallows and at this point he’s just teasing it out of you more and more. The second you think you’re  _ done _ Dave wrings another wave out of you and by the time you’re done for good it’s Dave’s turn. 

You thrust into him shallowly, barely pulling out of him before you’re pressing back in, and your hand works around him in long dragging strokes and little twists of your wrist. Most importantly you kiss him; kiss his cheek and his jaw, and his neck as he moans quiet and long and all for you right above your ear.

Dave, in all his exhaustion, does a good job of not dropping his whole weight on top of you. Instead he shuffles to the side and breathes soft puffs against your shoulder. His fingers are a little sweaty and awkward as he pets through your hair, but they’re harmless. He touches you reverently.

After a few minutes of dozing Dave’s active again, pulling you out of bed and into the bathroom to take off your bandages and replace them with new ones after he checks over your stitches. You can tell he doesn’t like looking at them, but he studies them _ hard _ to make sure that the stitches aren’t pulled or torn anywhere, to make sure that all of where you healed up is still together.

When he’s satisfied he bandages you back up the way he’s supposed to- apparently he’s spent a lot of time making sure he knows how- and tugs you back to bed to sleep the rest of the morning away under the protection of his black-out curtains.

* * *

 

It’s always been just you and Dave every time you’ve been together, and you’re not so sure how to act when it’s  _ not _ just you and Dave. 

Dave, apparently, does.

The three of you are up on the third floor of Dave’s house, tucked into the innermost room. Which features no windows, but does feature a  _ huge _ fucking TV, a generous collection of furniture, and every hookup you could possibly want in a home theater. Currently you, Dave, and Roxy are abusing the privileges of Dave’s… privilege. And watching cartoons in possibly the most self-indulgent way possible.

Dave has his arm thrown around you and you’re just trying your best to man the popcorn bowl between two greedy popcorn hounds. If Dave didn’t insist on the single most obnoxious popcorn  _ tub _ \- which rests flat on your lap and easily makes it halfway up your chest in height- you make a note to insist on them getting a bowl each and leaving you out of it.

By the time your cartoon marathon trickles down to an end, both Dave and Roxy’s attention exhausted, Roxy’s gotten quiet and you’ve got anxiety. Dave is fine. He withdraws himself from you to go pick through his game collection.

“I want ta’tell my mom. About this. The longer I don’t the more it feels like lying, y’know? And… I think goin’ behind her back about stuff, like, kinda risks our relationship way more than anythin’ else would.”

You can’t argue that. So you nod quietly and don’t comment until Roxy looks at you.

“Is that cool? ‘Cause… I know you’re kinda sensitive about this.”

You don’t have much of a choice in the matter. It’s her family, and as much as it may also be yours you can’t really say anything about that. You’ve made your choice, and you chose a fragile sexual relationship over the unbreakable bonds of blood relations and unconditional love. Maybe. Jury’s still out on how  _ family _ actually works in relation to Dirk Strider.

“I think you’re right. About your mom. You can only do this so long before it starts getting weird that you aren’t telling her about it.”

“I don’t really know what to say,” Roxy frowns across the room at Dave’s back. He’s fucking around, at this point, and you’re pretty sure he can hear the two of you just fine. He probably just doesn’t want to get involved in the conversation. As much as it’s  _ absolutely _ his business.

“So say that. Say you didn’t know how to bring it up, you were afraid she’d be upset because maybe she wanted t’introduce y’all herself, it’s a small world and your roomie happened to be screwing your uncle and now they’re living together and it’s wild.” You lean forward to set the popcorn bowl on the table in front of you, reaching for your water. “Blame stuff on me if you have to. I did kind of tell you not to mention it. Just… try to stick to honesty, I guess.”

“What d’you think, Uncle Dave?”

Weird. Really weird. 

“Hmwhat?” Dave turns to look at you two, eyebrows raised over recolored eyes. He insisted on contacts under his glasses for her visit. “Oh, uh… yeah. I should probably talk to her, too. If you want I could just call her up and we could, like, speakerphone it up. That might be easiest.” 

You shift uncomfortably in your seat, scooting closer up to the arm of the couch. 

“Yeah, um…” Roxy clears her throat, sitting up straighter and reaching out to toy with the edge of the popcorn tub.  _ “Sure, _ okay. I just don’t, like, I don’t know.”

“It’ll be fine.” Dave brings the controller with him over to the couch, plopping down between the two of you. “Don’t worry about it. Even if she gets kinda bitchy I won’t let her do anything weird. She’s been thinking about you for, like, your entire life. She’s not just gonna drop you or whatever. Even if she tries I’m not gonna let her. We’ll call her in an hour, she should be all free up then.”

It’s uncomfortable, uneasy for the first half of that hour while Roxy adjusts to the idea and you stew in it. You’re at the root of this problem and if it sews any discomfort between the three of them it’s purely your fault. On top of that, the more people that find out about the nature of your relationship with Dave the more catastrophic the fallout is going to be when it all blows up in your face. You’re more stressed out about it than they are when it comes time to call Rose.

“So, Rose, don’t be pissed-“

“Dear brother, when will you learn that those are the single worst words to prepare me for any information that you’re about to bestow upon me.” Rose’s voice is flat when she says this. “Why am I on speakerphone?”

“Caaaause I’m hangin’ out with your daughter and her BFF and we wanted, to like, let you know we took it upon ourselves to get to know each other. I know you’re, like, all about formal introductions and stuff but, uh… it’s sort of silly when you live in the same city. And we were halfway to connected to begin with.”

There’s a long silence, through which your eyes bounce between Dave and Roxy. The longer it goes on the more their knees bounce. Roxy sucks on the end of a curl, Dave rolls the end of an already chewed up pen between his teeth. You don’t even know where he pulled it from.

“Rooooosie?” 

Rose sighs and there’s the faint clatter of something being set down on the other end of the line. “I didn’t anticipate this. How were you already familiar?”

“Dirk and I kinda have this thing and after he got out of the hospital I kinda took him in ‘cause, like, he can’t really pay for his shit.”

You look away from Roxy and Dave both even if they aren’t looking at you, tucking yourself into the couch. 

“Ah, how… charitable. What exactly is the nature of this  _ thing?” _ Roxy looks between you and Dave as Rose speaks and you ignore her, picking at a loose thread on your pants. 

“Uhhh…” Dave clears his throat. “We’ve been kind of seeing each other for a while.”

“Hm.” Rose clears her throat, heaving a breath that catches your attention toward the phone, has you sitting up and gripping at the hem of your shirt. “Well, I had intended to get us together in November but I suppose it was a tad self-centered of me to restrain you to my schedule. I trust that none of you are too busy for a visit a week from now?”

Dave blows air out of the corner of his mouth, looking between you and Roxy before shrugging. “I’m good. Assuming it’ll be the same sitch as our usual visits. I’ve got some appointments next week, but it should be fine.”

“Yes, and I’ll be attempting to keep up with my writing schedule. Roxy? How are you for next week?” 

“Oh- uh… I’ve gotta stay on my work schedule for the most part but, um… I can probably move some stuff around to accommodate. It should be cool!” 

If anything it’ll be nice for Roxy to see her mom. And it doesn’t sound like she’s mad at her.

“Dirk?-- Oh, is he there? I haven’t heard him yet.”

“I’m here. I’m…”  _ unemployed, worthless, your brother’s live in toy but I clean sometimes so that’s kind of something right?  _ “... Free.”

Dave clears his throat and lifts a hand to rest on top of your head, combing his fingers through your bangs. He coaxes you into his shoulder and you stiffly follow his lead, laying your head on him and only glancing at Roxy briefly before averting your eyes. You need to talk to Dave about PDA. “A’right, so you gonna send me your flight info when you get it, then?”

“I’ll do just that, Dave. Expect it later tonight, I have some planning to do.”

“Uh-huh. Love you. Try and get some sleep.”

“You too, Dave. And you as well, Roxy.”

“Love you, Mom! I’ll text you!”

“I look forward to it.” She hangs up and Dave’s phone beeps a few times to signify it. Roxy and Dave sigh nearly in unison, provoking a short laugh out of either of them. You pull away from Dave’s shoulder and force a smile when he looks at you questioningly.

Thankfully neither Dave or Roxy say a thing to you despite your behavior. Instead Dave fetches his Wii controller and offers to let Roxy take a whack at Breath of the Wild. Roxy’s ecstatic, Dave makes more popcorn while she crafts a shitty Wii character. They only acknowledge you long enough to use you- gently, always gently from both of them- as a prop. Roxy rests her legs on your lap and Dave leans his body against yours with an arm wound around you as he snacks on popcorn.

* * *

 

“Dirk,  _ holy _ shit!”

You freeze with Dave’s fork in your mouth, knife poised over  _ his _ french toast in the middle of the sunny breakfast nook off the dining room. It’s a nice room that Dave showed you just this morning- the floor to ceiling windows giving a nice view of the front and back gardens. It’s all nice creams and almost-pastel colors, light woods.

Dave’s been gone to the bathroom for nearly two hours, so you figured he wouldn’t be back. But here he is. Catching you in the act of finishing off the breakfast he abandoned.

“What?” you ask with a mouthful of syrupy, eggy toast.

Dave brandishes three bulging binders, the edges of torn plastic sheets and paper- (construction, lined, plain white)- peeking out of the sides of them. “I found my pokemon cards! And my Yu-Gi-Oh cards! And my Magic: The Gathering cards!”

“Oh.” You fold the last of his french toast over with his fork, bundling up the whole thing and stuffing it into your mouth before stacking your two empty plates and setting them off to the side. You ball up the sticky paper towels and drop them on top of them. “You wanna come show me?” you ask, gesturing to the coffee table by the window and the cushy couch next to it.

Dave beams brighter than he did when he entered the room, rushing over to the coffee table and slapping his binders down, flipping them all open as he takes a seat on the floor. You follow him over and sit behind him on the couch, leaning over to look as he starts flipping through pages and talking a million words a minute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what dave doesn't mention is that rose had twice as many magic cards, all the best decks, and won every game they played.
> 
> tbh dave is good at collecting bad at playing


	24. war is never cheap dear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not as good today but here it is.
> 
> warning: derek is a huuuuge dick like really really really bad to say the least. to dirk specifically. also there's a gun and some blood involved so just be prepared for that if you need to be.
> 
> EDIT: I don't know anything about guns, fuck me.

“Goin’ somewhere?” Dave looks up at you from the couch in his room- your room, too, for now- a little knot of confusion drawing his eyebrows together. You’re actually dressed today, more than you usually are when you’ll just be sitting around the house, and your hair managed to get styled.

“Yeah, Derek texted me. He, uh… got back from some business stuff and wants to talk to me about getting stabbed or whatever.”

“Oh.” Dave drums a couple of pens on his thighs, frowning pretty hard before he tosses them onto his coffee table- he has a fucking coffee table in his room, what the fuck, you’ll never get over that.

“... Yeah.”

“So, uh… are you two, like, still doin’ all that…?”

“Do you want me to stop?” you ask, picking your wallet out of the bottom of your bag. Cal’s sitting on it. Poor Cal, locked up in your backpack. Dave doesn’t like him very much and you’re more embarrassed than you should be. The puppets have always been _weird_ and you don’t want Dave to think you’re _weird._

“Kind of…” You look up from your bag, zipping it up partway- leaving a hole for Cal- and dropping it. “I… uh. Kind of want, like… just us, maybe?”

Your heart hammers against your chest and you flex your hands into fists, relax them again. “Okay,” you say, voice higher than you mean it to be. You clear your throat. “Yeah, um… I’ll… yeah. I’m good with that.”

Dave nods slowly, ducking his head to try and hide that he’s smiling. “Cool. Come here?”

You wander over to where he sits, standing between his knees. He gestures for you to lean down, making a coaxing motion with his finger until you bend close to him. “Be safe,” he whispers and pulls you in by the cheek to kiss you. “Take one of my cars. I’m, uh, not really sure if you should he riding your bike right now.”

“Okay,” you agree, biting down on your lower lip to hide your smile. “Okay. I… I’ll see you.” You kiss his cheek on your way out, covering your mouth with your hand to hide your smile from nobody in particular as you descend the stairs and scurry out to the garage.

* * *

 

You’re interested in seeing the inside of Derek’s condo, comparing what you saw before to the effects of the week he spent _on business,_ but instead of inviting you in Derek pushes you out of the way when he answers the door. “Hey,” he says, pausing to give you a once-over as he locks his deadbolt. “You look pretty good. Feelin’ better?”

“I’m not sure I’m supposed to drive, but yeah. I’ll sell you my leftover muscle relaxers cheap when I’m done with’em. If you want’em.”

“Thanks,” Derek gestures for you to follow him out to his car, swinging his keys on his finger as he does. “We’ve got a field trip.”

“I can see that. Where’re we goin’?”

“Can’t tell ya, unfortunately, kiddo. I’ll explain on the way.”

Derek herds you into the passenger seat of his truck, comfortable in the familiarity of model, and within minutes the two of you are in the thick of downtown Los Angeles. The buildings all turn to gritty brick and dirty concrete, and you’re shocked by how unfamiliar and unsafe it already feels. This used to be your everyday, but now it makes you uncomfortable.

Fairly enough, leaving the house made you a little uncomfortable.

“You can’t really protect yourself for shit, can you?” Derek asks as his truck bumps along the roads, fingers tapping against the steering wheel with the rest of his body relaxed in his seat.

You don’t say anything. Only look aside to Derek with your jaw set and your hands balled into fists between your thighs. Derek doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t need to, you guess. “You need to nut up if you’re gonna live in a city, kid, it’s different. If you think you’re okay now because you’re livin’ up with your hotshot brotherfucker, let me rip the bandaid off: this shit is temporary.”

It’s not the call to reality you want. Not today. You look away to the road. “I know.”

“Do you?” Derek asks, not with snark but instead completely deadpan. His truck slows almost to a stop before he rolls the wheel to pull between two buildings, tires bumping over cracked pavement. “You’re on a timer and _Lalonde_ ain’t gonna give you anythin’ extra to move you forward. I applaud you for takin’ that step to get what you need the best way you can, but it don’t stop here.”

Derek parks the truck in the middle of the alleyway, reaching into his backseat to pull loose a bag to the front. Glass clinks against glass, metal against metal, and it’s hard to keep your hands glued to your lap instead of clapping them over your ears. “Come on,” Derek says, needing no response from you as he slides out of the truck and tucks his keys into the pocket of his jeans. The door slams shut and yours shortly follows.

How much do you trust Derek?

Too much, honestly. As Derek pushes open a big sliding door into what almost looks like a warehouse, barren aside from a few old gas and electrical hookups and a variety of stored goods, you think you’ve already lost. You don’t have anything to defend yourself, but you’re not sure it matters.

“You comin’?” Derek asks with an eyebrow raised over his mirrored oakleys. Gold-orange shimmers back at you. You step forward with one eye on the bag in Derek’s hand, willing yourself not to look back at the truck. It’s pretty useless. You could hot-wire it, but it’ll take time.

Derek guides the huge sliding door closed behind you, with a clack-clack of the tracks, and you listen in the darkness to him working with the chain and the padlock.

He wouldn’t kill you. He doesn’t have a reason to. As far as he knows, you’re still sleeping with him. If he were going to kill you he wouldn’t- well, he might play a game like this, tease and torture you, that sounds like his thing- but he wouldn’t be this _obvious_ about it.

Or maybe he would. If only to show you that he can. If only to show you that he was right: you’re a weak wuss.

The lights come on, illuminating in better light all that you’d seen from the entrance’s lighting. Derek’s hand falls on your shoulder and you try your best to suppress the gasp that it draws from you. You don’t do well. “Took you a while,” Derek says, leaning forward to speak close to your ear but not _into_ it. “I can’t say I don’t appreciate the trust, it certainly makes things easier, but for future reference: if you’re not gonna believe trust is bullshit, at least believe it takes more than that.”

Patting you on the shoulder a couple more times, Derek pushes past you and crooks a finger behind himself to gesture for you to follow. “Come on. Got a present.”

Quietly, stiffly, you follow behind Derek through a few bends. Everything looks half-completed, constructed all in wood like some guy came in here and slapped the structure down from scratch and kept it bare minimum. Enough to be functional, nothing for style’s sake. You round a doorway after Derek and he meets you with a gun. Offered to you with Derek’s fingers around the long barrel, the butt of it pointed at you. When you take too long to accept it he waves it at you.

You don’t. He lowers the gun. The door behind you slams shut heavily when he pushes it. Almost immediately Derek huffs, flicks the light on with a crackling sputter of the fluorescence, and says: “Chill out. You’re fine.” It’s only then that you realize you flinched. Hah. Maybe Dave was right: you are the poster child for being abused as a kid.

A sheet separates one side of the room from the other, all the way to the floor, and you hang back as Derek approaches it confidently. The second that he looks back at you, you shrink away from Derek’s gaze whether or not there’s a barrier of sunglasses. “Get over here,” he orders, gesturing with a nod to the floor in front of him. You go, not sure if it’s going to be viewed as _spineless_ or _smart_ by him.

The curtain is pulled aside with a clinking of metal rings over rod. Behind it the room is covered floor to ceiling with white sheets duct-taped to the walls. A man sits on a metal fold-out chair in the center. Strapped in.

The metal clink-clink-clinks to close the curtains behind you and Derek steps up to your side with his arm around your shoulders, cool metal of the gun in his hand laid against your chest. Heavy. “I like t’consider myself retired,” Derek starts, his eyes fixed forward on the man in the chair. “I made enough money doing what I did and it’s not really like it was my _dream career_ or anything. I did it because I could do it and I didn’t need a fucking resume to get started.”

“I can appreciate that,” you murmur, clipping back the compulsory _I guess_ with your teeth as you look over the man- closer to kid, probably- in the chair in front of you. His face is young and his body is relatively unfilled. If he’s not a teenager, he’s _barely_ not a teenager.

“I’d think so,” Derek drops his arm from your shoulders and you almost hate it more. “But it took work, like anything does. I didn’t need any _professional qualifications_ -“ he stresses the two words bitterly, “-but I needed to work at it. Maybe not as much as you will, but I did.”

Again, Derek offers you the gun. “Kill him.”

His skin is tan and his hair is dark, coarse, flopping around his ears- “I- I don’t even know him.” Your body locks up as Derek’s big hand closes around your wrist, shaking in Derek’s grip as he spreads your palm over the grip of the gun, guides your finger into place.

“You wanna know him, Dirk, really?”

“It’s…” your voice shakes and you set your teeth tight together. _You gonna say anything, or you just going to play mute?_

“It’s…?” Derek echoes, leaning to try and get a look at your face as you turn your head away. “Better than killing someone you don’t know anything about? Is it really, Dirk? You want me to tell you ‘cause you’re hoping it’s something like- _no family, scummy criminal record_ \- something you can latch onto to justify it. Ain’t that right? You wanna feel like a hero when you take someone’s life, don’t you? That’s how everyone feels. And that’s why everyone’s too fucking weak to manage it.”

A few seconds tick by. The only sounds come from the boy strapped to the chair, muffled by the gag in his mouth. You can’t look at him. Derek isn’t the type to just let you be quiet like this, not when he’s trying to tell you something- teach you something? Every second it’s going to piss him off more and your anxiety builds with every moment it doesn’t come out to _something._

“Okay,” Derek says eventually. There’s a certain edge to his voice that has your eyes squeezing shut and you whimper, despite yourself, when Derek’s hand squeezes down on the back of your neck. “I’m not gonna do this for you,” Derek whispers close to your ear, leaned down close. “This is a hurdle you’ve gotta fucking jump. I’m not giving you a fucking _option_ here.” His hand slips up your neck and you shift your hand around the gun. “So do it,” his fingers breach your hairline, nails scratching along your scalp-

You extend your arm and blindly pull the trigger. You've seen enough guns to recognize a silencer attached to the barrel of the gun, so the loud crack of the shot startles you even worse. The only reason you don't spring five feet back and fall on your ass is because Derek's hands are steadying you. Forcibly grounding you. One hand rooted in your hair painfully and the other squeezing your wrist. Because _of course you do-_ you open your eyes to peek just as the man starts screaming _bloody fucking murder because that’s what this is_ through his gag.

Your shitpoor aim managed to shoot straight into the kid’s collarbone. His shirt is white- torn and dirty, but white- and it’s so so easy to see the blood seep in gushes from the wound, feathering out through the material of his shirt quickly. Fuck- you probably broke his collarbone with the bullet, too. Fuck.

With a sob you fumble the gun and Derek laughs beside you. He sounds _genuinely fucking delighted._ Your hand is comically trembling, so bad that it almost looks exaggerated, faked, acted out- it looks like you’re _resisting_ Derek when his hand closes over yours again but you’re _not_ you swear you’re not. Derek’s other hand doesn’t leave your hair, deeply grounded in your roots- holding, now, almost _pulling_ \- as he redirects and steadies your aim. “Shoot,” he says. You sob and then you do.

The bullet fires right into the kid’s eyeball and he stops moving, goes slack in the chair with only his ties holding him upright. Your hand goes loose around the gun and Derek takes it. “Good call on my part not starting you with knives,” he says, whistling and apparently surveying the blood splatter. His eyes turn on you and his hand tightens up in your hair—

_“I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry, I triedItried-“_

“Shhh,” Derek hushes you, his hand falling away from your hair to steady your cheek and thumb away the tears there. “You did good, okay? Chill out.” You don’t know where the gun went but suddenly Derek has two hands keeping a hold on your jaw, cupping your face on either side even as your shoulders bunch up and you try to twist away. He looks bewildered, almost uncomfortable as you start openly bawling between his palms and all at once- between blurry-eyed blinks- his face entirely blanks.

“Alright,” he sighs, rolls his eyes, and that’s almost easier to deal with. You take deep breaths to get yourself to stop, rubbing your eyes free of tears and wiping off your cheeks, too. You’re still hiccuping, your breath still has a shivery quality to it. You don’t try to say anything. “You’ll get used to it. It’s just going to take time. _Next time_ you’re gonna help clean up, but for now we’ll just come back to this.”

Derek shoves you by the shoulder to turn back the way the two of you came. You’re uncomfortable walking in front of Derek but something tells you he won’t appreciate you lagging behind today.

* * *

 

“Oh, hey.” Dave’s steps are a few seconds behind his head and he stumbles as he abruptly turns into the guest room you retreated into. It’s the same one you’d been staying in when you first came here and it’s the only real place you felt like was _yours_ enough to be private.

The constant buzzing of your tattoo gun comes to a halt as Dave does next to you and you thumb away blood with your gloved hand as you look up, opposite hand reaching for your pipe. “What’s up?”

“Uh… I didn’t know you were home-“ you look away, flicking the starter of your lighter and holding your pipe to your mouth. “-how long have you, uh… how long have you been here?”

“Like an hour,” you breathe out, smoke billowing down over the neat new lines marked on your wrist.

“Oh.”

Dave lingers near you, standing, until he decides to linger while sitting instead and takes a seat beside you. You can feel him peering at the marks on your wrist and you’re compelled to cover them but instead brush your thumb over the ink to clear away blood and excess.“Are those the, uh… marionette things? String crosses?”

It takes you a second to respond. Mostly because you’re embarrassed. You reach to gather some materials to properly wrap this up with, just to busy your hands. “Yeah,” you say. “Pretty much.”

“So you’re…” Dave stalls out almost mid-word and sighs. “How’d it go with Derek?”

 _I don’t want to talk about it. It went shitty. Some stuff happened and it sucked and I cried and I still feel like crap._ The words are on the tip of your tongue. “Fine. We just went and hung out downtown.”

“Is that… a good idea? After what happened?”

“It was fine. Derek’s kind of… a deterrent.”

“What’s even down there that’s interesting…” Dave says, more to himself than to you. He’s jealous, you know that. You _like_ that. But your brain isn’t doing what you need it to do.

“Nothing. But there’s not much that I can participate in up here.” Flat, toneless, you start packing your tattooing kit back up.

Dave is naturally baffled. “It’s… not like money’s an issue, dude, even if I wasn’t down to hang out I’m up for just, like, giving you money to go do stuff with. Hell, I’ll give you one of my cards.”

“I mean that they’d assume I stole any sort of money I tried to throw around in these parts.” Crawling up to the head of the bed, you sit back against the pillows and pull Cal into your lap.

Cal catches Dave’s attention long enough to stall whatever he’s about to say, but this time he studies Cal with something separate from his usual discomfort. A second of… _something_ before it lapses into frustration. Not comforting at all. You know the puppet thing is stupid if not unnervingly abnormal and downright creepy, but it’s more genuine than you want it to be. Cal’s–

You don’t want to think about the specifics right now. Instead you look away and try to ignore whatever’s keeping Dave from talking. You clutch Cal closer to your stomach, close your eyes and breathe. Honestly you probably shouldn’t have done this tattooing thing because you _might_ be due some medication right now that thins your blood. Oops.

After almost a minute Dave sighs. “Hey,” he whispers, his fingers extended to your cheek and guiding your eyes back to him with pleading, petting, pressureless caresses of his fingertips. “Are you okay?” he asks, when you finally look at him.

Immediately your chest feels tight. The only reason your lip doesn’t wobble and you don’t _break_ all at once is a deep breath you try to take subtly. Still, you don’t think you can say anything without breaking down. So you grunt.

Dave drops his hand. You ruined it. It was intentional but you fucked it up as a result– And then he crawls up beside you and wraps his arms around your shoulders, urging you against his chest in a tight (but not too tight) hug.

You can’t hold it in at that point. You shoulders move with a harsh sob, tight and tense in Dave’s arms before your body loosens up and falls slack against his chest. His hands rub between your shoulders, smooth circles that make a nice, regular scratching sound of the friction- his hand moving your shirt against your skin. “C’mere,” he murmurs, slurred with emotion rather than anything else, his lips pressed to your temple as he ushers you closer into his embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> man imagine what could've been if they grew up together right
> 
> also for reference: i update on my writing blog whenever i post a new chapter, so if you're on tumblr a lot and you wanna know when that happens, my url is stimstriders


	25. birds of a black black feather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh take this im sick of looking at it.

DD: You wanna talk about what happened?

A good and a bad thing about Derek is that this message sits untouched and unmodified in your message thread for days. If you tried to pull that with Dave, you’d get a minimum of twelve texts per hour until you answered it - most of which would be self soothing on Dave’s part. Modifications of his original statement to the point where he’s asking a completely different question by the time you respond, pages and pages of Dave talking to himself, thinking out loud through text.

It’s nice not to be rushed, but by the fourth day with no follow-up text you’re pretty sure Derek doesn’t really give a fuck whether or not you talk about what happened. It was intended to appease you, open you back up to whatever Derek wants from you. Smooth things over so that they can be dug up again. You try to put the whole thing out of your head.

You have another thing entirely to be nervous about today. Roxy is walking around Dave’s house with you while you wait for him to come back from the airport with her mom in tow. Today you’re exploring Dave’s basement, which is just as ridiculous as the rest of his house. An entire room is for wine storage, all the best from Northern California with a room tucked in the back - obviously intended for post-wine-tasting fucking. There are still half melted candles down here, a four-post bed with red silk sheets, _mood lighting._

Roxy stands silently beside you in the doorway while the two of you take the room in and then she starts _elbowing you meaningfully._ You frown at her, face hot, and remind her: “I’ve never been down here before.”

“Doesn’t mean you won’t be!” she grins, bouncing one eyebrow for a little longer before breathing out a sigh and looking back to the bed. “I should probably be grossed out by this, or something, right?” she says, wandering forward to root through the bedside tables until she comes up with a roll of condoms and a brand new bottle of cherry lube. She huffs, dropping both back into the drawer in favor of pulling out a particularly floppy, long pink dildo. She slaps it around, jerking it back and forth while you try your best to look unimpressed. “I guess it’s because I didn’t grow up knowing he was my uncle, seeing him every day and recognizing, like, _yeah that sure is my mom’s bro.”_

“... Yeah,” you reply dispassionately, inappropriately awkward. Roxy is testing the suction cup on the bottom of the outrageous dildo, sticking it to her palm before prying her skin off of it. She looks up at the high ceiling and you frown, taking a step back to get out of the way as she starts trying to stick it up there, throwing it up as high as she can only for it to flop against the ceiling sideways or come plummeting straight back down.

Eventually she gets it to stick, whooping in delight and stepping back toward the doorway with you. She watches the dildo intently as it wiggles back and forth, jello-like, until it settles.

She breathes a sigh of relief and turns back to you. “Is that weird?” she asks, attention refocused completely on you despite it’s almost twenty minute lapse.

“I think… aversion to incest is a nurture thing.” Saying that alone turns your stomach and your eyebrows knot together. “There’re always stories in the news about cousins only finding out they were cousins after they got married and had a kid or something. Maybe siblings, too.”

“I think I read one about twin brothers finding out they were twins after being like two years into a relationship,” she agrees, leading the way back into the wine cellar. You follow behind her, trying your best to keep your attention on how she resolutely looks forward. You’re proud of her. She hasn’t even stopped to read any of the labels or admire any of the bottles.

“Lucky I guess that it was you that hooked up with _Dave Lalonde_ after a chance meeting, and not me. Talk about close, right?” she snickers when you’re halfway up the staircase that leads into the pantry behind the kitchen. There’s more to explore downstairs, but the two of you spent so long fucking with the dildo that they’re probably almost back home.

“You’re not into guys so much, anyway, right?” you ask, eager to change the subject as you push open the pantry door and step into the kitchen proper. The change of lighting has you stunned - huge windows letting in more than the dimly lit cellar and pantry allowed - but Roxy walks right on through to start pouring herself a glass of water.

“I still like guys. I like girls more, but I’m not opposed to oogling a nice stubbled jawline or some curvy arm muscles.” She grins, setting her glass on the island counter and hauling herself up on top of it. Rather than an elegant hop, Roxy more or less climbs the counter like a little kid. You’re impressed that she didn’t utilize the drawers to make a ladder for herself. “But honestly, girl muscles are waaay hotter. Like, _mmmyeah,_ give me a girl that can bench-press me or, like, pick me up and throw me or somethin’.”

“That’s the benefit to working with strippers.” Your shoulders relax some and you pull yourself onto a barstool at Roxy’s side. She shuffles to face you better, sipping her water.

“Oh yeah. Purnima could crush me with her thighs.”

“And you would thank her.”

“Damn straight.”

* * *

 

When Dave and Rose arrive, Rose almost immediately flees upstairs with her bags insisting that she needs a nap after her flight. Roxy gets a hug, but you and Dave are brushed off with only a brief apology and a promise to be back downstairs for a “proper family dinner.”

Dave looks up the stairs after her and whistles a low note to himself before looking back to you and Roxy with a sheepish laugh. “I haven’t even officially, like, asked you out yet. Come on.”

Roxy snickers evilly, grinning aside to you and nudging you a few more times with her elbow like she had in the cellar. Your anxiety tightens into a solid ball in your stomach, knotting everything up and making it hard to breathe. Probably just a phrase, right? This is all about Roxy and Dave knowing each other, introducing them properly, and acquainting them to each other as _family members_ rather than- rather than whatever.

“Can I- Dave, can I talk to you? Really quick?” you ask before they press more into that topic- _Dirk’s family because Dave’s fucking him and Dave maybe wants to be in a relationship with him but haha who knows right we’re not gonna lock that down today-_ and Dave’s face smooths out into that professional _Dave Lalonde_ expression of cool carelessness.

“Yeah, sure. Do you mind, Roxy?”

“Nope,” she says, glancing between the two of you with raised hands and wide eyes. “No problem. I’ll be upstairs, utilizing your Switch.” She takes two steps back, pauses, snickers to herself. “I mean- your _other_ switch.”

“Oh my God,” Dave whispers to himself when she’s halfway up the nearest flight of stairs. “She _is_ my niece.”

You mumble indistinctly, tugging Dave by the wrist deep into the kitchen and then, after a moment of consideration, into the large walk-in pantry. “About this dinner,” you start when you’ve got the lung capacity to do so. “I-”

“I know Rose is being super weird about the formality of it and stuff. It’s… she’s kind of like an embarrassing Mom, you know? I don’t- I’m not gonna rush you into anything, obviously.”

“I’m… not worried about that.” You loosen your hand on Dave’s wrist and feel his hand twist for his fingers to hook your palm. “I… uh… should I even be at this thing? It’s kind of private, isn’t it? I think- I don’t know. The last couple of times Roxy’s been trying to sort out some crud with her Mom it kind of turned into being about me, especially now that I’ve shouldered my way into this whole- thing. Being involved with you.”

There’s an awkward shuffle of fingers as Dave tries to smoothly find a comfortable way to hold your hand, pulling you closer to him as he talks. “She’s been super into you being involved in this whole thing, dude. Not so psyched about us, ‘cause- like- you’re barely not a teenager and I’m… over thirty.” _Nearly forty,_ he means, but you’re not going to correct him and risk wounding anything important. “You’re Roxy’s best friend, dude, and the first person I’ve… kind of been serious about in a long time. Not that she really knows that, like… _really_ knows that, but there’s not a lot of people I sleep with more than once or twice so I think she kind of has an _idea...”_ Dave sighs, ghosts his free hand up your arm to squeeze your shoulder. “It’s cool, man, don’t worry about it. I can tell you’re worrying about it.”

You squeeze his hand, leaning forward to rest your forehead on his chest. “Just cool it with the PDA. I… this is my first… _anything._ I don’t know how to deal with showing it to other people.”

Dave’s lips press to the top of your head and it coats you like a balm. His arms both wrap around you and hold you close. The sigh that gusts against your ear almost has you believing that this simple fucking thing is just as relieving for him. “Okay,” he says, not bitterly or resigned to a fate, just openly agreeable.

* * *

 

Roxy and Rose make dinner together, Roxy with her experience raised in a greek family restaurant and Rose… probably moreso to exclude Dave. Apparently he’s not a very good cook. You’ve never seen him do anything more in the kitchen than reheat leftovers, so you’re ready to believe it. You’re not bad, yourself, but Roxy wants the alone time with her mom and insists that you and Dave will benefit from your own alone time.

With a painful amount of winking.

You and Dave sit at his bar across the foyer instead, him sipping on a glass of wine and you- mostly just watching him. You’re alone in the room but not alone in the house and neither of you know what to do with that. After his second glass Dave loosens up, starts flirting with you to pass the time. Starts pressing his chosen wine on you the more you refuse to loosen up under his attempts to charm you to pieces.

Not that it isn’t working. It’s just that the more flustered you get the more you clam up. Especially with other people in the house. Maybe it was just that _family dinner_ comment, but you feel like you’re right back to when the two of you first met with a startling lack of _need to please._ Frigid, prudish - and Dave’s trying to take care of it the same way: getting you to drink.

You’re starting to cave when Roxy hop-skips into the room, brimming with excitement to have all of her favorite people in one place, herding the two of you into the dining room where everything is laid out. Table set, food accounted for, a buffet you can sit right in front of.

Dave plants himself at the head of the table, Rose making herself comfortable at his left and Roxy tries her best to give it up but you leave open the spot at Dave’s right for her. Across from her mom. Only after you settle into the seat directly beside it does she settle down herself.

“My,” Rose opens with as the four of you start dishing up, “your ego’s made for an unbalanced table.” She looks slyly aside to Dave, who’s already got his plate piled high with a mountain of pasta and three pieces of garlic bread. You wonder how much trouble his ambitious eating habits get him in. In the time you’ve known him he hasn’t made a point of exercising, but he also hasn’t had any modeling shoots that you’ve known of.

It makes you embarrassingly eager to roll up his shirt and get a good look at his abs again. Pinch and poke for evidence of squishing.

“Dirk?”

Shaking your head, you break your stare away from Dave- (looking just as confused as you with a generous forkful of saucy pasta half-hanging out of his mouth)- to look between Roxy and Rose. “Sorry,” you clear your throat. “What?”

“I was asking about your mother,” Rose says when your eyes land on her next - and lock there. “You’d mentioned your father raised you alone, before, what happened to her?”

 _“Mm,”_ Dave hums through his mouthful of pasta in protest, swallowing it down and promptly choking. He reaches for his almost untouched water, chugging it to clear his airways, coughing a few times and pounding on his chest. The whole table watches until he’s done- heaving huge breaths, rasping out: “Could you, like, _not?”_

Rose turns her attention to you defiantly and you bristle.

“He didn’t tell me a lot,” you snip shortly, eyes dropped down to your plate and fork pushing around strips of chicken. “Or anything. Really. She’s always been out of the picture.”

“Not really dinner conversation stuff, Sis,” Dave reasserts and you look up when Rose gasps and growls, rubbing her wrist with her open palm.

“Don’t _pinch_ me. What are you, twelve?”

“Basically,” you murmur, properly twirling up a forkful for yourself while Roxy laughs. Rose takes it upon herself to smile and snicker while Dave gapes, but it all sours on her face into a more serious expression.

She doesn’t press it. Doesn’t say anything more uncomfortable after that. Mostly she and Dave rehash _when Rose was pregnant_ stories as a substitute for _remember when Roxy was a kid_ stories. Reminiscing how they can.

It’s nice. Seeing Dave this animated. Bordered by his family. People he loves unconditionally that love him back. Even if, in Roxy’s case, she barely knows him and mostly utilizes him for his Switch. The Nintendo one.

You fit in more than any of them realize but you’re just _this_ far removed that you don’t _actually_ fit in. You probably wouldn’t even if they knew. Especially if they knew, by this point.

The tension bleeds out of you as “family dinner” comes to a close. The dishes are cleared away and Dave settles back into his chair sobbing over having eaten too much to have desert. Rose has a cup of tea, Roxy has a bowl of strawberries, you’re not sure why you’re still here if only because everyone else is.

Rose sighs and sets her tea down with a resounding _click_ against her chosen plate. “Dave, Dirk,” she says slowly, and you turn your eyes away from Dave to Rose. “This has been difficult to compose and I really should have said something earlier. Much earlier, apparently, but admittedly I didn’t expect how small a world this was. And I certainly didn’t anticipate the two of you… becoming involved.”

You break into a cold sweat and watch Rose turn to look at Dave. He says something about Rose’s tone, like she’s telling them that someone died - or something along those lines. You know what this is. You know exactly what this is.

“Do you remember the last time you looked into your adoption?”

Dave’s voice is muted. You turn your attention down to the table. “Barely. It was forever ago. I only really remember that it was all bullshit. Some _unfit to parent_ types that weren’t even married.” All muddled up and watery.

“I’ve done some digging more recently,” Rose is saying, “and… they had another child. When you were sixteen.”

“You’re saying.” You cut in without looking up, mouth moving robotically. You’re playing a part.

“I am.” She pauses. “Are you alright?”

“What?” Dave’s chair creaks as his weight shifts and he leans forward. “What’re you saying? What does this have to do with anything?”

“I’m twenty, Dave. You’re thirty six.”

You hear Dave’s breath catch and it feels like a crack in thin ice. This is it. This is it, this is what it all comes down to.

Roxy is saying something to you to your left, Rose is saying something else, Dave’s voice is getting louder- your chair’s legs shriek against the wood floors and you imagine long white streaks in the deep red wood. “I need to piss, bye.” You say it all on a breath, it’s hard not to run the short distance to the door, even harder to turn toward the stairs instead of right toward the front door.

But you have priorities.

“Yeah?”

You didn’t even realize your phone was in your hand until Derek’s voice sounds low in your ear. Yesterday you would’ve thought the sound would send you right into a panic attack, but… given that you’re probably already there the difference isn’t stark.

“Come pick me up,” you’re saying without processing the words in your head first. “Come pick me up p-please. I’m-“

“I know where you are,” Derek interrupts. “Pull yourself together, I’m on my way. What happened?”

 _“I can’t,”_ you gasp, all of the time between climbing the stairs and going back down them blurring, but Lil Cal is tucked against your chest and you’re jogging through the foyer. You’re ignoring Roxy’s voice calling after you. You’re slamming the door shut behind you and fully running down the hill of Dave’s driveway.

It’s a long driveway, but it feels like you blink and you’re ten blocks down the street, fumbling with Derek Straight’s truck door and clumsily climbing into the passenger seat. Derek makes a wide, swinging U-turn and you huff and puff, trying to control your breathing.

Derek takes a look at you and you meet it. Your heart hurts. You can visualize Dave reaching over the car to pull your face close to his shoulder, can imagine him hugging you and hushing you and smattering kisses over your head- you’ll never have that again.

Now all you’ve got is Derek’s faint look of unnerved disgust before he looks back to the road. His gloved hands flex around the wheel and his fingers tap there a few times, but that’s the only other indication of _anything_ you get.

“You’re young,” Derek settles on telling you. “You’ll get over it.”

Outrage flares up in you but you think the only thing that would come out of you if you tried to express it would be screaming. _Get over it-_ this isn’t just some boy. That’s been the problem all a-fucking-long. This is the only person that’s given your life a direction since you were in _grade school._ He’s _everything about you that’s worth something_ and it’s gone now.

Your phone vibrates and all you see is the words _Roxanne Michel_ flashing back at you before you turn it off. Fuck that. Fuck that fuck that.

“Maybe you won’t get over it,” Derek amends, turning on his radio at a stoplight to play some CD. It’s loud, heavy, thrumming like a heartbeat through the whole car. “But it’ll get over you and that’ll be that.”

* * *

 

Derek’s condo is almost claustrophobic in comparison. There’s only the one bedroom and you can almost view the entire floorplan of the house from where you’re standing. The kitchen to your right, the living room straight ahead, the bedroom around the corner. A bathroom beyond that- only entrance out of sight.

You’re pushed that way by Derek’s firm hard hand. He urges you into the bedroom and through it, tearing Cal from your chest to toss him onto the bed in passing. He steadies you right in front of the toilet just in time for you to throw up everything you just ate. Straight in. Derek’s palms holding your limp bangs away from your face even though they’re at worst sweaty and not in your way at all. His chest is solid against your back. You’re sobbing but this time he’s patient and mostly soothing. It all feels stiff and mechanical in comparison to what you really want. But it’s something.

He leaves you with your head cushioned on the cool toilet bowl, gagging on the scent of your own vomit, shivering and crying and not really caring.

“All _love_ is bullshit,” he says with one hand holding your chin and the other holding a toothbrush anywhere from a minute to an hour later. At some point you moved from the toilet to sit at the edge of his jacuzzi tub. He brushes your teeth really hard and you’re not completely sure how you got here. To this. “You might think it’s not this time because it’s different and people wouldn’t like it if they found out, because it’s messed up and there’s some solidarity in that, but it’s just as fucked up and just as fake.”

He holds your tongue as he scrapes it clean with the back of the brush. He’s surprisingly good at making sure you don’t gag while still cleaning off your tongue really good.

“No two people are really made for each other. No two people can understand each other or really cooperate with each other to really make things last. It’s all fucking temporary anyway.”

Derek holds up a cup of mouthwash and you take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im not gonna be answering any comments from last chapter tonight, sorry about that. ): kind of had a rough day. blanket response to all the feedback, though: i really appreciate everyone taking the time and all your comments are probably the only reason this fic has made it so far. i love you guys. <3


	26. do you feel it?

When you slept with Dave you never felt like you needed Cal with you. Some nights you didn’t think about your puppet at all, others you would only passingly consider his absence before settling into Dave’s arms. He never asked if you liked to be held, he just latched on. Even when Dave was asleep before you made it into bed, he would lock on as soon as you were properly in range. Never even woke up to do it.

You don’t know how to ask Derek.

Last time it’d been casual. A post-sex thing that leaned more on aftercare than affection, probably, but at some point during the night Derek loosened up and pulled away in his sleep. Something tells you he wouldn’t exactly be into it if you reached out in the middle of the night or snuggled up to him before bed.

So you keep your distance. There’s a foot of space between you at least when the lights flick off and you figure, hey, at least he’s not pulling Cal away from you.

Your whole life you’ve gravitated toward Cal. Learned to latch onto him rather than anything else and the worn fabric of his torso has been a sensory comfort for years. At one point the thin, pinched fabric of one of his wrists had been worn nearly to the point of tearing. One of your first patch jobs. 

Cal doesn’t hold you back, but sometimes just something to hold onto is enough.

There’d been another point, when you were really young, that you dampened the back of Cal’s shoulders with your dad’s cologne. For a short time that had been a miracle solution to getting to sleep and staying asleep, but things changed and he started noticing it was missing. That cologne was probably the most expensive shit he owned at the time. Other than you.

That memory flits at the edge of your consciousness only long enough for you to wish you’d taken a bottle of Dave’s cologne with you. But that’s too uncomfortable a connection to linger on for long. And it’d muck everything up even more than it is now.

At least you’ve still got  _ some _ deniability… maybe.

Laying in Derek’s bed with your eyes fixed up on the ceiling, you figure that your exclusivity with Dave was bullshit. It didn’t mean anything in the days it was valid because the only person that you might’ve strayed past it with put a gun in your hand and pressured you to kill someone the same day it was established. Then again. Here you are laying in bed with that same man.

You woke up hours ago at this point, blinking up at the ceiling and toying with the hem of Cal’s shirt. One of yours from when you were little. There was still a lot of baby clothes left around your house when you left, either things you kept to tuck Cal into or just junk that you and your dad never really got around to getting rid of. You left that all behind and now the clothes you wore when you started kindergarten are being worn by some grimy kid from the next street over or some deranged lady’s chihuahua mix.  All your valuables are gutted. 

All for this.

Eyes rolling toward the nightstand, you consider turning on your phone to read your messages. You know Roxy sent you something so maybe Dave did, too. But…

Your hands don’t even leave Cal’s body. You couldn’t handle if there  _ wasn’t _ anything there, you probably couldn’t even handle if there was. You don’t know what to expect for sure. Roxy, at the very least, probably knows you knew. She’s a smart girl. She’s put it all together already, you’re sure of it. Coming to California to find Dave Lalonde? Being so attached to him? Aversion to incest is something that’s grown with you when you live with a relative- or whatever? Transparent, obvious, there’s- there’s no fucking way she doesn’t-

Shuffling onto your side, you try and clear your head as you stare at Derek.

He looks so different when he’s sleeping. You’d expect him to still look dangerous, like a wild animal. A sleeping bear you don’t want to poke awake at risk of getting mauled. Instead he looks… not fragile, but worn. Beaten down. Without his usual intimidatingly presence that he projects with every calculated but volatile movement, his scars look more like wounds than trophies. 

It’s hard to forget the events of hardly a week ago, but with the fresh memory of last night and the resurfacing memories of the last time you’d been in this room, it’s hard to remember, too. More than anything you just want to dump your brain into an open ear, cough up everything that you’re thinking like it’s poison and have it be  _ heard,  _ dealt with, something… You want arms around your body, you want comfort, you want  _ sleep _ .

Instead you lean over your side of the bed and sit Cal on the floor, stripping your shirt with shaky hands to lay it over him like a blanket before turning back. Breathe in, breathe out- you can do this.

You slip closer to Derek under the covers, moving careful as can be and pressing your face to his bare chest. Your lips slide against scars, testing the contrast between natural skin and the soft lines of his former wounds. You kiss down his chest, spending little time on  _ care _ \- because he wouldn’t appreciate that, he doesn’t want that, that’s not him- and only use it as a tool to wake him up gently.

So he doesn’t maul you.

A low hum starts up in his chest, almost reminiscent of a growl and it has the same effect of stiffening you up. Your eyes lift with your lips pressed almost up against his belly button ring. “Morning,” he mumbles, not sounding like he’s particularly in favor of or opposed to be woken up…

You wrangle your body between his legs, pulling the blankets half over your head and curling your fingers up in the waistband of his sweatpants- you startle when a big hand rests over your shoulder, close to your neck. “Take it slow,” Derek sighs, and you lift your eyes to see him tuck his other arm behind his head, eyes still closed like he’s dozing or half asleep. “N’don’t freak out with my dick in your mouth, a’right?”

“Yessir…” you agree, letting your shoulders slacken under his hand. Slowly you rub your cheek against the shape of his cock through his sweatpants, splaying your hands over his hips instead of trying to pull them down. “Don’t pull my hair…?” you prompt, intending to be a statement but coming out as a question. “I don’t, uh…”

“Mmhm…” Derek hums again, low and affirmative, patting your shoulder with his fingers. You take that as confirmation enough, curling your palm over his dick to rub back and forth slow and easy, dragging his pants down with the motion enough to show the tip of his head. The blankets slip down your neck as you lean forward to press your lips to the soft skin. 

Derek’s hand squeezes around your shoulder, palm rubbing over the sharp jut of bone there, and you greedily tug down his pants. This time he doesn’t stop you, only lifts his hips to let you pull them further down, and you huddle down into the warmth of his thighs. They’re marred with scars just like the rest of him, hairy, heavily muscled. There’s almost no give when you press your palm flat to the inside of his thigh and Derek grunts in an unhappy way when you do.

Your hand slips higher quickly, bracing his hip instead as you bow your head to kiss and suck at the base of his cock and down around his balls.

When you get your mouth around him you put it all out of your head, only snapping back to awareness when he slides his fingers into your hair. But he doesn’t pull or even hold very hard. His fingers just slide through the soft parts of your hair below the fucked up sculpting job that fell apart at some point after dinner the other night. You don’t think about it, only throw yourself into doing a good job; wringing as many approving sounds as you can out of Derek- steadily waking him up.

After he’s had enough, Derek pushes you off with a hand on your shoulder and sits up. He orders the rest of your clothes off and you comply, he shoves you onto your back and you stay there while he gets up and fishes around under the bed. You put your hands where he tells you to put them, you don’t move while he ties them to the headboard and you spread your legs to make a space for him between them.

“You gonna cover these up with tattoos, too?” Derek asks, his fingers brushing over the fresh scars that started all of this. It pulls you back, has your fingers curling around the rope securing your wrists to the bed.

“Probably,” you murmur, leg twitching away from Derek’s hand when his palm lands on your thigh. His fingers trace the curls of ink you tattooed there years ago now. Shaking his head, Derek leans forward and kisses your neck as he starts looping rope around the slats in the headboard again. 

“Don’t know how different we had it, but we sure deal with shit differently,” he says, offhanded but still inappropriately serious. You grunt and turn your head away, giving him space to do what he wants but hopefully cutting off the commentary. You don’t want to talk. Not to Derek.

As he loops rope around your knees and pulls them up-up- until your hips strain, he sucks your neck until it hurts. You imagine big, inky purple-red blotches and push every other thought about it out of your head as he secures your legs and starts pressing his fingers into you. 

For a few minutes, being bound like this is ultimately underwhelming. Uncomfortable, sure- you feel like you’re on display and the rope digging into your skin doesn’t thrill you as much as it makes you feel exposed and vulnerable. Derek’s fingers work you apart meticulously, but you can’t focus on the  _ good _ parts of that with all  _ this. _

“With you all tied up like this,” Derek whispers against your collarbone as he pushes your head to the other side with his free hand on your throat, “I bet we can get you to come without touching yourself. Maybe I’ll  _ make _ you do it. Won’t let you go until you can do it yourself…” 

A whimper punches out of you and you can feel Derek grin against your skin as distinctly as the scratch of his stubble. “I can be patient,” he vocalizes, between a coo and a growl; condescending and threatening in tone, but somehow twice as good in that. Your legs pull with the urgency to wrap around him but only get the dig of a thick band of rope in return, shortly after your hands pull as well- reflexive even though you  _ know _ it’s futile- like you’re testing the rope. 

You’re eager for more of it. More of the harsh, heart-hammering, predator-prey dynamic. You want the light-headedness, the compulsion to squirm, the physical presence you can’t ignore because it’s so figuratively  _ loud. _

_ “Fuck me,”  _ you demand, your urgency boiling over into your nails clawing at Derek’s headboard and the ropes that hold your wrists. 

A flurry of indistinguishable, brief and muted emotions flit past Derek’s face so fast you’re not sure they were ever there, but you don’t want to think about that. Maybe you want to know what he was thinking, what soured or disconnected or- or whatever just happened to him, but you don’t think you can handle the answer. And you sure as shit don’t want to deal with it. 

_ “Please…” _ you punctuate belatedly, 

“The best part about a new bitch is training them,” Derek whispers in response, hissing with his fingers fucking into you deeper and faster, relentlessly enough to hurt a little and jostle your body with the impact- but not too satisfyingly. “In the end it turns into some sort of fucking game every time you disobey, because it’s on purpose and I  _ know _ it’s on purpose. But I like a good,  _ wholly unintended _ fuckup. I like a  _ brat _ that got told somewhere along the line that if they begged and cried long enough they’d get what they want, and I like turning that around and making you my sweet, obedient little cock-warmer.” Derek’s fingers spread until you stretch around them, your feet wobbling near Derek’s shoulders and your toes curling as he teases your rim with his fingertips.

“I’ll fuck you ‘til you’re crying,” Derek growls against your ear and squeezes your throat in his free hand and holds it closed. “Until you’re begging for me to touch you, until you’re screaming for me to jerk you off and all you’ll get is my dick until you can come on my terms. Until you can be  _ good.” _

All you can do is press your throat into his hand and lean your head against his. You can’t reach him with your hands or your legs and he’s keeping well out of range for you to arch up and rub against him- it’s driving you crazy. Already you want to tug these ties until they break or saw your limbs off. “What–“ you rasp, throat fluttering against his palm when his hand loosens up. “What i-if I don’t, sir?”

Derek’s fingers slip away from you and he sucks another dark, huge hickey under your jaw. Your body writhes in its bounds and you whimper and gasp- but he doesn’t seem to mark it as an impatient interruption of his lengthy delay in reply. “I’ll spank your ass raw,” he finally says, labored into your shoulder while the head of his cock presses up against your hole, slides teasingly up and down- “then let you finish yourself off empty.” 

Anything you might’ve had to say to that oozes out your ear with everything else as he thrusts full into you, leaving you huffing and gasping and straining to bury your face into his shoulder. You  _ crave  _ the closeness most of all, and more than you thought possible the ropes restrain you and leave you desperate with  _ wanting but not getting. _

You get it now. Especially with how desperate you are to touch him. Bondage is another kind of deprivation, and probably the  _ worst _ kind for you. Fuck- at least Derek is touching  _ you _ though, right? You have his hands on you, at least, and that’s good enough. Especially when his rough hands shove your thighs wider apart- past straining and straight into  _ painful. _

Dave would hate this, he  _ loves _ to touch.

A sob chokes out of you and you use the ropes for leverage to bend your tense body. Derek keeps himself just out of range for you to rub against, but it feels just as good to feel the dig of ropes into your skin and tug at your bonds until they creak. 

You lose time between then and Derek’s body pulling away from yours, but in the end you’re panting and shaking, sore up and down your body from the echoes of the pace he set and the places where he bit you or pressed his fingers deep into your skin. You’re crying, just like he promised and, after giving himself some time to recuperate, he unties you and turns you over onto your knees. 

He didn’t anticipate, you think, for you to not be able to hold yourself up. “Jesus,” he laughs, breathy and almost happy, “you’re so pathetic.” In any other context you’re sure his words wouldn’t sound so affectionate, but he pulls you over his damp but rock-hard and sturdy thighs. He smacks your already sore ass and you huff.

By the time he’s satisfied himself that your ass is bright red and tingling- numb, by now- you’ve squeaked out a whimper or two and even made a weak effort to pull yourself out from his grasp. He rolls you onto the bed, on your back, and you blink blearily up at him as you try to get your legs to cooperate well enough to get your ass up off of the suddenly scratchy sheets.

“You gonna jerk yourself off?” he asks from across the room. A gun- probably- clatters against the floor and one of the drawers in his dresser grates against its tracks as it opens. 

All you can really manage is an indecisive string of sounds, half grunting, half humming. 

“Don’t know?” Derek asks, turning toward you now and laughing. He actually looks really handsome like this. Smiling, relaxed, laughing- probably at your expense, but still genuine laughter. 

“Tell you what,” Derek says as he approaches the bed in a pair of loose basketball shorts. “Why don’t you figure it out while I go get some shit to clean you up and if you decide to try by the time I get back, I’ll help you out. Sound good?”

You think you nod but you’re not sure how well the motion executes. 

Derek leaves.

For a little while you just stare up at the dusty ceiling fan, measuring your breathing in numbers, and then you wriggle and struggle to turn over onto your face. You rub your cheek into the soft pillow under your head, both your hands lifting and curling up in the fabric. It’s really cushy and soft under your head, but almost too soft. There’s too much give and not enough substance underneath. Still you work your hips against the sheets, huff little breaths that heat the pillow underneath you in spots. 

Blurry images pass through your head, conceptual rather than fully formed- you’re too fucked up, right now, too on edge to have a complete thought. 

The hands on your hips that remove you from the bed are too rough. They don’t caress you and touch you like you’re a fragile thing- rather they grip you and handle you like a rowdy puppy, hauling you up high enough for one of those hands to wrap around your dick.

It’s efficient, but unsatisfying. You come, your body relaxes into something more like a puddle than a rock. Derek cleans you up wiping your body free of sticky gunk and supporting your weight when he puts the rest of you in order. 

In the end you get what you wanted. Derek holds you for a while against his chest, face pressed to the crook of his neck, but after everything it just feels dull.

You sleep for a while, but you might as well have just had your eyes closed because it feels like only seconds have passed before you wake to Derek pulling away from you. He talks to you, low and not abrasive, probably telling you where he’s going or that he’ll be back soon-

Honestly you don’t really care. You grunt softly in response, just so he knows you heard him.

The door clicks shut.

You lean over the edge of the bed and grab at Cal with clumsy hands, pull him up under the covers with you. You press your face between his shoulders and inhale… but there’s nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry dirk i took out my rough mood on you promise ill make it up to you bb xoxo


	27. and stop, see the mix won't work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally. After, like, a fucking MONTH I finally got to post something. Thank. Fuck.
> 
> Here's some gutter-punk! Let me know what you think. C:

“Expecting breakfast in bed?”

You’re bundled up in Derek’s sheets, Cal held tight to your chest, eyes lazily fixated on the darkened screen of your phone. You don’t really feel like eating or moving, but in the back of your head you know you’re hungry. “No,” you say anyway, because even if you expected to be waited on you don’t think Derek would be into that. Or anywhere near accommodating.

Derek is quiet long enough that you have to look up to check if he’s left. He’s still there, staring at you with narrowed eyes, and he catches yours the moment they turn his way. It shocks you momentarily that you can tell, clear as day, that he’d rather look away from you- he’s holding eye contact only for the power play. “Your brother might’a put up with this,” he says, one of his hands lifted to his hip, “but I’m not gonna.”

You let that hang in the air long enough to be sure he isn’t going to add anything before you twist over to face him properly, Cal’s wrist worried between your thumb and the knuckle of your forefinger. “You compare yourself to him a lot,” you point out, dry and deadpan if only to mask that you’re really not sure if you should. “You compare our relationship to my relationship with him. A lot.”

If possible Derek’s face hardens further and he leans forward, hands braced on the bed one after the other as he looms over you. “You do, too,” he whispers in a way that makes the words seem like the sharpest threat. “You may not say it out loud, but I know you do. I’m only saying it to make sure we’re on the same fucking page: I’m not him. I don’t want the same things from you that he wants. I’m not going to treat you the same, I’m not gonna look at you the same, and it’s best if you keep that firmly in mind.”

You can’t meet his eyes head-on and find your own dropping down as your body does, leaning away from him to press your back flush to the bed again. “I know. I have.”

For nearly a minute longer Derek looms over you and you keep your eyes fixed on the smattering of deep gold hair on his knuckles. Slowly Derek draws back, wordless for the moment, and drops his weight onto the bed beside you. A tight sigh blows through his nose, barely audible past the whipping of the fan- the only other sound in the room.

“What’re you gonna do,” he asks, more flat than questioning, like it’s an obligation rather than a genuine curiosity. “Throw your phone in the lake and go off the grid?”

 _Maybe._ You look aside to Derek, trying to scramble together a response that doesn’t sound completely pathetic. One of his eyebrows arches up and he presses his lips thin. “I don't have a lot of options.”

“You don't,” he agrees, leaning over you and snatching your phone off the nightstand. He turns it over in his hands, rolling it from back to front to back in his palm. “You reply to whoever you're avoiding or you don't, you find a realistic way to pay your bills, or you don’t.” His eyes lift and shift to the side, holding yours until you look away. “Which, by the way, I'm not helping with. Sex is good and all, but not adequate payment for being financially responsible for you, in my book. Sorry, I tried parenting already. Ain't swingin’ that.”

You push your brief shock down, clearing your throat and looking down to where Derek extends your phone to you. “That isn’t the only problem.” You look back up to him and sit up, tucking your arms back around Cal. “This- up to this point, _everything_ has been-”

“Functionally it’s the only problem,” Derek interrupts, leaving you reeling as he swings his legs back over the edge of the bed. “I’ll loan you some clothes. I’ve got work in a bit, so I’m droppin’ you off for babysitting.” You stay quiet as he roots through his dresser, tossing you some sweatpants and a shirt- both of which you can make work just fine, but are more than a little too big for you.

* * *

 

”Derek, out of the goodness of his heart, bringing me breakfast,” Carles deadpans with a distinctly bothered expression, hair a tangled mess and standing up in several directions. “Goodie.” Regardless, he takes the McDonalds bag offered, rifling through what you know to be several sleeves of hashbrowns. “Did you get-” before he can finish, Derek is offering him a chocolate-loaded iced coffee. Carles makes a suspicious sound and hugs both the bag and the drink close to his oversized nightshirt. “Alright,” he says, teething the end of the straw, “I’m listening.”

“I’m leaving him with you,” Derek says, crossing his arms and not bothering to gesture to you, eating a chicken biscuit at his side. “I’ve got work and he needs supervision.”

“Why? He’s a fucking adult. And- Jesus, we’re talking about you like you’re not even fucking here, come inside. Not you, Derek, fucking Christ, you bull, you weren’t invited, just him.” You swap places, standing behind Carles now and shifting Cal where he’s looped by his arms around your neck. Carles gives him a momentary glance, lips twisted, before he looks back to Derek. “You’re severely lacking in people skills.”

“You’re one to talk,” Derek says flatly. If he’s offended, you can’t tell. “Will you take him or not?”

“He’s already in my house, Derek! It’s not like I don’t take more incapable droopy-eyed, coked out vagrants in practically fucking hourly. My issue is- _you motherfucker, get back here!”_

Derek is already halfway down Carles’s front steps, leaving you to step a few paces back as Carles slams his door. “Can you fucking believe that guy. He doesn’t even fucking try to be a proper _imitation_ of a God-damn human being, much less treat other fucking people like them! It’s too fucking early.” To punctuate, he takes a hefty drink from his coffee, angrily slurping past what’s probably a huge glob of chocolate syrup stuck up his straw.

“... At least he remembered what you wanted…?”

Carles glances over his bag and cup with a deeper than usual set to his brows. “I hate him,” he decides, falling onto his couch and grabbing for the remote to his TV.

* * *

 

For a few hours Carles flips between ignoring you- giving you space, you guess- and prodding debates over Grey’s Anatomy. Overall, though, he avoids really asking any prying questions. At least, until you’ve settled down.

“So… I heard that you got stabbed.”

“Yeah,” you agree, frowning at the cat food commercial on the screen. The two of you switched over from Netflix after a Grey’s Anatomy discussion got a little heated. “I kinda had to quit my job, so… Sorry I haven’t been around for, uh…”

“Are you serious? No, man- I’m not gonna blame you for not being around to draw on my skin and buy pot right after you got fucking _jumped._ It’s cool.”

You nod, screwing and unscrewing the cap on your water bottle and wiggling the crook of your elbow around Cal as you do. “Yeah. I never really told you what was up, though. So… my bad, there.”

Carles grunts, lifting and dropping his slim shoulders and tugging his blanket more tightly around himself. Silence lapses between the two of you, cat food turns into some dumb cleaning product. “Are you doing okay?” he asks, finally, twisting partway to actually face you.

“I…” you squeeze the neck of your bottle and glance over at Carles, his face half covered in the tint of your sunglasses and half not. “... I was living with Dave for a while. I sort of asked him to…”

Carles is patient for all of five seconds. “To what?” he prompts, thick eyebrows screwed up in the middle- not that they aren’t perpetually, like he’s got the world’s most persistent headache, but deeper than usual.

“This is pretty sensitive crap, man, I… shouldn’t be talking about it. It could- I don’t know. It could get him in some serious trouble.”

Carles looks mildly irritated by that, huffing a frustrated sigh, but ultimately shrugs and shuffles until he can lean back against the arm of the couch. “Okay, fine. Privacy or whatever, and I’m sure any asshole that _was_ going to be a huge prick about shit that isn’t his business would say something along the lines of ‘ _Me? I wouldn’t tell a soul!’_ But…” He pauses, seems to collect his words together in his head for once. “At least tell me he didn’t hurt you. Or I’ll tear him a new asshole.”

“It was kind of my own fault. I fucked things up, I ran, I… he didn’t know what hit him, and I’m sure if he did he would’ve… done things differently.”

“That’s really not fucking reassuring and…” Carles stares at you for a few seconds, shakes his head, then heaves a sigh and grabs for the TV remote. “Just let me know if you change your mind about talking to me. And if… if I can do anything to help. For now, anime or cupcake wars?”

* * *

 

Spending more than a few hours with Derek is weird. You try not to make the comparison between him and Dave, but it’s there. Clear as day on Derek’s couch.

He lounges in an impression in the leather, feet precisely placed on the coffee table so that they don’t by chance knock over any of the bottles lined up there. You’ve lingered by the archway into the kitchen for a few minutes now, watching him sip off of a too-square bottle. After another minute of watching the light of the TV flicker over his hair and his shoulders, you slip back into the hallway and through the doorway to his bedroom.

You’d tried to make a little conversation in the car, on the way back to Derek’s condo, but he apparently hasn’t been feeling it and you’re not socially capable enough to really give it much more effort than you did.

(“How was the porn industry?” Grunt. “Not good?” Grunt. “... You hungry?” Grunt.)

Dave really made his own conversations. Even when he didn’t have anything to say he had something to say, and on the rare occasion he _didn’t,_ he still contributed somehow. Dave really clearly liked to hear himself talk and, honestly, you liked to hear him talk too. There was never any pressure to fill silences or give more than you could.

That’s not the case with Derek. Sometimes you’re sure that he wants something from you and he’s not getting it- and even if you could give it to him you don’t know what it _is._ A quiet part of you that you try not to pay any attention to says _it has something to do with that day in the warehouse._ Other times, you’re almost positive he doesn’t want anything from you, barely wants anything to do with you.

You need to stop comparing Derek to other people in your life. Present or past.

You switch off all the lights in the room and listen to the whipping of the fan as you settle down into bed, blankets pulled up to your chin and tucked snugly around your shoulders, Cal tucked against your chest under your arm. You eye your phone on the nightstand, right where you left it this morning, and try to push all of your focus onto unrelated topics.

Math, the lyrics to the first song that comes to mind, car parts, Carles’s tattoo.

You’ve only just started drifting into almost-sleep when the door to the bedroom opens, bringing with it a new wave of noise- the A/C running through the vents in the hall, the distant hum of the refrigerator, and the scuff of Derek’s socked feet over the hardwood.

His steps are a little heavier and more uncoordinated than usual, falling irregularly rather than in a neat line. You frown to yourself, unable to keep from uneasily shifting as Derek approaches the bed. You listen as he clumsily undresses himself and tense up as he pulls back the sheets, nearly tugging them off of you.

Derek drops his weight fairly ungracefully on the bed, fighting the covers with his legs for a short moment before pulling them even with your share across the bed. You listen to him settle and startle when his fingertips graze your side.

“Chill,” he mutters. (Grunts, slurs.) And you shiver as his hand clumsily fumbles across the scars on your stomach. His arm wraps around you and Cal both and he hauls you to the middle of the bed.

You make a little choked sound, unsure what to vocalize if anything, and Derek’s arm settles around you more firmly, his opposite arm pushing it’s way under your pillow, under your head.

Derek buries his face in between your shoulderblades and the anxiety stirring in your chest tentatively dissipates, replaced by confusion. Derek settles in, breathing against your thinly covered skin in strangely tight puffs, and you shift your hand from the blankets to slide over Derek’s forearm and squeeze.

His breath shivers as he sighs it out, the tension in his arm loosening, and he hums softly as he fully settles at your back. Your fingers slide down, slot into the grooves between his, and Derek doesn’t let you properly thread them together- but it’s close enough.

You don’t wake up once during the night, and when you rouse in the morning Derek is still pressed to your back and snoring faintly into your shoulders. You’ve barely moved during the night, it seems like- still loosely holding Derek’s hand where it’s curled close to your chest.

It feels safe. If you don’t think about how _unsafe_ it felt at first and the other… complications in your relationship with Derek. But this early in the morning, with nothing else at the forefront of your mind, it feels safe.

When you wake up again- you don’t remember falling back to sleep- Derek’s weight is gone from your side and your back and you can hear the shower running in the bathroom a few feet away. Heaving a sigh, you tug Cal higher up your chest and press your face into his shoulder. Shoving the blankets down and properly off, you scoot to the edge of the bed and stretch yourself out before hauling yourself upright.

Derek steps out of the bathroom mostly dry a few minutes later, toweling off his hair. He looks… tired and severely irritated and you’d bet this is what a hangover looks like on his face. “Hey,” he says, nothing changed in his tone, “we’re goin’ somewhere in 20, so fix yourself up. We’ll get breakfast on the way.”

“Where’re we goin’?” You set Cal on your pillow, stripping out of the shirt and pants he loaned you and- for lack of better thing to do with them- toss them on the floor with the other discarded clothes.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll pick you out some clothes.” Derek drags the towel off his head and drops it over a couple guns leaning against the dresser. His hair looks stupid like this, fluffed up in several places from the towel drying but still notably damp.

Shaking your head, you murmur a vague agreement and shuffle your way into the bathroom.

* * *

 

The jeans that Derek laid out for you are, rather than being drastically too big for you, a little short and snug. They’re kind of uncomfortable, but they look just fine after you tug on one of Derek’s big shirts over it.

After you quickly wrangled your hair into looking appropriate you’re pretty sure you’ve taken longer than 20 minutes, but when you step out into the living area Derek doesn’t look too bothered. He just tugs the duffel bag hanging from his fingers up onto his shoulder and nods toward the door.

Even hungover Derek’s a struggle to keep up with; long legs and a determined _take no prisoners_ pace leaving you trotting to keep up with him as he crosses the parking lot to his truck. You climb up into the passenger’s seat and watch him place his duffel in the back of the cab with a rare delicacy.

Rather than stopping by any fast food establishments, Derek pulls the two of you into an IHOP a few minutes later, elbowing your shoulder to prompt you to move out once you’re parked.

“So…” you start once the two of you are properly seated and Derek’s armed with two mugs of black coffee. He grunts softly, lofting a brow that nudges his Oakleys further into his disheveled hair. “You feelin’ okay? Last night y’seemed kinda… upset, I guess.”

He grunts, and at first you think that’s all you’re gonna get as he sips from one of his mugs of coffee. “I’m fine,” he says after he’s swallowed- which really isn’t much better, but at least he’s talking to you.

You should probably leave it be at that, and for a few minutes you do as you page through the menu. You’re not really hungry, even though you didn’t have dinner last night. When the server comes around you hand her the menu and order an english muffin.

“Bullshit,” Derek interrupts, startling the waitress. She glances between the two of you, her notepad clutched a little closer to her chest. “How d’you like your eggs?”

“I’m- uh… I’m really not-”

Shaking his head, Derek turns to the waitress. “Add bacon and hashbrowns to that. Two poached eggs, white toast, and if you could bring the coffee back ‘round that’d be great. Top off his orange juice, too.”

The waitress hesitates for only a second before she starts writing, meekly repeats the order back, gives a squeaky little _yes sir,_ and leaves quickly. The few people sitting around you turn quickly back around when you look at them.

Clearing your throat, you settle into your seat and start tapping one of your fingers on the slightly-sticky table. You don’t know how to feel about it. A lot embarrassed, slightly… flattered? No- but good in some way. Mostly embarrassed. Derek doesn’t seem to care. Halfway through his second mug of coffee, holding it out when the waitress comes back around to fill it up for him. “Thanks, sweetheart,” he murmurs aside to her, getting a little nod and a murmured _no problem_ back before she scurries off again.

“Is this about the whole… me comparing you to Dave thing?” you ask, the words tumbling out of your mouth as you tug at the corner of a paper napkin, tugging it this way and that until it rips.

“How many times do I have t’tell you I’m not fucking hung up on you?” His tone is sharp but not far from it’s typical inflection. It’s kept relatively level and he squints over his mug at you- he would be relentlessly holding eye contact, you’re sure, if you let him. If you actually looked at him.

“It’s still shitty. That’s why y’brought it up, right? ‘Cause it’s a shitty thing for me t’do t’you and it makes y’feel crappy.”

“See-” he pauses as the waitress sets down another glass of orange juice for you. You murmur a _thank you_ and push your mostly-empty glass to the edge of the table- orange-slick ice cubes clanking around the cup. She takes it and shuffles off. “-this is why I don’t do _girlfriends_ or whatever the fuck. All this _are you okay?”_ He pitches his voice up. _“What did I do, Derek? How do I make it better?_ Bullshit.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not exclusively a girlfriend thing.”

“I don’t want a boyfriend either.”

“Y’don’t have t’be in a romantic relationship with someone to care about them and how the things you do impact them.”

For a second Derek seems to be stunned silent by that- long enough that you lift your eyes from the rim of your glass to look up at him. When you meet his eyes he actually looks away in a knee-jerk reaction that you can see across his face he immediately regrets- the way his eyebrows tighten together and his lips press thinner.

“Well,” he finally says, lifting up his mug of coffee. “I don’t want any of it.”

* * *

 

“Who the fuck is this?”

An hour later you’re standing halfway behind Derek on the third floor of a parking garage in downtown L.A, tempted to tuck your hands into your pockets but refraining because you don’t want to set the guy across from the two of you off. And because you probably can’t fit your hands in your pockets, because these _fucking jeans_ are so tight.

Especially after Derek made you eat half of what he ordered you for breakfast.

“He’s my little brother. Problem?”

Your eyes shift from Derek to the man standing opposite you. He’s fidgety, his beard growing in patchy, and he _distinctly_ reminds you of some of the people you grew up around. After a few seconds of thinking about it- (looking frantically between you and Derek, wrinkling up his nose and sniffing, wiping it with a dirty hand-) he rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “His sunglasses are stupid,” he decides, digging into his pocket to unbury a thick, clipped wad of wrinkled bills. “Four thousand,” he says, extending the wad toward Derek.

Grunting, Derek shoves the duffel bag into your hands and reaches for the money. He gets a little resistance when he tries to take it- his client glancing between Derek and the bag a few times before Derek legitimately _growls_ and the man startles enough to drop the wad into his waiting hand.

He doesn’t try to stop Derek when he starts counting out the bills, just sits and wrings his hands, eyeing you over critically.

“Alright,” Derek says, tucking the money into his back pocket and taking the duffel bag from you to pass over by the handles. “Enjoy. Don’t shoot your fuckin’ foot off.” The man fumbles when he takes the bag, clutching it to his chest tightly and seeming to have some trouble holding the weight of it all. Derek slings his arm around your shoulders, steers you back toward the truck. “Come on, squirt.”

* * *

 

You head back to Derek’s condo, riding with only the heavy beat of Derek’s chosen mixes to break the silence. None of what you listen to with him is anything you’ve heard before; typically a mixture of, you _think,_ sampled sounds and low electronic beats. Some sounds you’re sure you’ve heard in the apartment you lived in with Roxy- the hum of unmaintained and exposed pipes, the harsh patter of needle-like water-pressure on cheap acrylic, the distant sound of traffic. All tweaked and tuned alongside a tempo, mixed with- sometimes- a modified flute or piano and the sharp ticking of a clock.

It’s nice. Unique, peculiar, but really nice.

You assume it’s some of Derek’s own work; you’ve seen some packed up music equipment in the general disarray of his condo.

Derek sits right back where you left him the night before when you get inside, but this time you take a seat next to him and focus some of your attention on the TV while he flicks through the channels. Eventually he settles on some trashy MTV reality show and you toe off your shoes alongside his, tucking your legs up on the couch while he extends his own over the gap between the couch and the coffee table.

The silence hangs and you let it, only breaking it with the accidental squeak of leather under your body as you shift up against Derek and lay your head in his lap. He grunts in response- softer than what he’d given you the other night and only mildly irritated. You persist, tucking your shoulder against his thigh and making yourself comfortable.

He doesn’t correct you and doesn’t push you off, so you count it as a win.

Maybe you can handle this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that you can get quick notifs to when I post chapters + extra content @stimstriders on tumblr.


	28. the other side of paradise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while! Here's a chapter. There are some more notes at the bottom for those of you that are interested in the status of this fic, other stuff I'm writing, and where to find me outside of Ao3. (:

You really can’t handle this.

The longer you stay curled here the more uncomfortable it gets, either by way of the thick corded muscle under your cheek or the thoughts that continually buzz through your head the longer the TV drones on. There are a few sharp sounds of shrill-voiced girls ranging from teenagers to grown ass women- you’re not following, really, you don’t know what the deal is- but the longer you lay here the harder it becomes not to fidget.

The only other sound is the slosh of liquid- this time in a can- as Derek steadily sips off of whatever he’s chosen for the time being. It’s not liquor, at least. That’s something.

What are you doing? What  _ have _ you been doing for these past few months- your entire fucking life, even? Since you were ten- up until you left for L.A, maybe longer than that- you’ve been dead set in this trashy, take no shit  _ “lifestyle” _ built around where you grew up. You’re  _ strong, _ all spite and spit; you grew up in a park and that taught you not to take shit from nobody, right? That taught you to hate everyone and everything including but not limited to your own fucking brother- who, at that point, you never fucking met. That taught you that  _ nobody _ experienced the type of shit that you did and  _ fucking nobody _ understood what  _ real _ hardship was. Especially not your silverspoon, adopted-out bro.

Except, you’re not strong. You’re not  _ all spite and spit- _ you’re a fidgety fucking coward that can barely look anybody in the eye. You’re some punk ass little alley cat that turned tail when shit got hot in the house he got comfortable with, so he ran toward something uncomfortable and too familiar- but safe. Like, frankly, this thorn-bush dumpster of a person you’re pretty sure just sold weapons to some twitchy-fingered thug. That pulled your tail and had you shoot someone- fucking  _ kill someone- _ while he laughed. But it’s okay, right, because he treats you alright sometimes and it seems like he likes you. Because he’s solved your problems for you before.

You’re still a kid.

Pushing yourself up to sit, you fold your hands in your lap and lean back against the couch, watching the TV numbly. Two women are scratching at each other and pushing, you can feel Derek’s eyes on you.

“Y’gonna puke?” he asks, and when you look at him his hand curls into a fist against the back of the couch- pressing into the leather where it gives. His knuckles have scars where they’ve split multiple times over. 

“Nah,” you mumble, tugging your legs onto the couch properly and tucking them closer to yourself. You look back to the TV and see, out of the corner of your eye, Derek pick up the remote. The channel changes over a few times, passing through some fixer upper show, some food network food tour, settling on a TV show in the middle of a climactic, probably big-time-spoiler-y moment.

How long have you been planning hunting after Dave? Three years, at least- it all turned concrete after your dad died- and  _ God, _ you can’t even really say it to yourself, can you?  _ You killed your dad.  _ You fucked with his meds, you fucked with his diet, you poked and prodded at his medical issues until he  _ fucking bit it _ because you were  _ sick of him _ and you  _ wanted him dead. _ It’s been in the back of your head since you did it, and maybe it seemed like it came out of fucking nowhere- telling Derek about it- but it wasn’t. It’s been bottled up in you for so long, it’s no fucking wonder you blurted it out to him the first opportunity you got because you realized he’s  _ just as fucked up as you _ if not  _ moreso _ and you were  _ overjoyed _ to finally have an opportunity to let out some of the bullshit sitting in your head.

“Hey.”

The room is dark, the TV off. Derek’s legs slide off of the coffee table, his unfinished beer replacing them, and his free hand settles on the back of your neck. It’s still too calloused, too rough, and it feels like a vice poised at your spine- ready to snap closed and never let you go. Like a weapon. Unprompted, that makes you wonder if your touch ever felt to Dave like a slick oily poison. Clogged arteries or pounding veins.  _ Sounds romantic, _ you snip to yourself, sharp like a needle jab-jab-jabbing into the skin.

Derek doesn’t verbalize anything, but his eyes don’t ask if you’re okay. They don’t wonder what he can do to make you okay again, they don’t ask what’s wrong or what happened or what you’re thinking about- his face just looks a little tired.  _ You’re a mess, _ he doesn’t say, but you can hear his voice when you think it- say it for him. 

Shifting his hand, Derek squeezes your shoulder instead of cupping your cheek. He hauls himself up, he grabs your bicep and he tugs you up after him. You go, because you can’t really think of anything else that you would do. Fight him? Go out and live on the streets on your own?  _ Haha,  _ you’re not nearly self sufficient enough for that.

Derek steers you down the hall and for a second you think he  _ actually _ thinks you’re going to throw up and is transporting you accordingly where your weak kitten legs cannot take you- but then he heaves you bodily up by the waist and you have a second of heart-dropping weightlessness before you flop onto the bed and bounce.

“Jesus- fucking Christ,” you complain, breathless with the remains of your brief fear before you turn over onto your back just in time for Derek to crawl over you. 

“I’m not gonna say it’s easy t’forget you’re a kid,” Derek says, stopping short with his hands braced either-side your shoulders, “because it’s not, frankly. You’re a kid. Through and fucking through.” Something about his tone, the sentence he started, makes you think he expected otherwise regardless.

“What’s your point?” you ask, without even the subconscious intent for defiant venom. As much as you might’ve built yourself up, at one point, to believe that’s who you are- it isn’t. Not yet, in any case.

“You let the shit in your head get to you too fuckin’ easy. It’s… it’s  _ palpable, _ kid.”

While you turn that over in your head Derek tugs aside the loose collar of your shirt and sets his teeth at your collarbone. He doesn’t try for even a second to be gentle or soft about it and maybe you should see that as inconsiderate or selfish, but that’s just Derek. And maybe you should start thinking of him like that, if only to be  _ fair  _ to him. Just Derek, just Derek-

-but you can’t help yourself, you have to compare because that’s the only way you can understand anything. Derek is vastly different from Dave- obviously, clearly- but he’s not so different from you. And when you think about  _ that, _ it’s a little easier to loosen yourself up and not get frustrated by how firm he is under your hands and how his teeth hurt a little too much digging into your skin and splitting your lip. It’s not like he knows what else to do with you, other than fuck you and use that as an excuse to dole out something like affection.

Yeah, you can get behind that.

* * *

 

“Oh,” Carles says when he opens the door, eyebrows raised high on his forehead. “It’s you.” 

“Um,” you clear your throat and look back to where Derek’s truck is pulling onto the street too fast. “Yeah. Did he not text you?”

“Pfft,” he shakes his head, faltering visibly before stepping back from the door. “Of course he didn’t. But you didn’t, either.”

Stepping in as per his invitation, and letting him close the door behind you, you shift Cal against your chest and shrug. “I’m not really using my phone a lot right now.”

You expect more prodding, at least a  _ ‘because of the Dave thing, right?’  _ but Carles only nods a couple of times and eyes Cal in a faintly disturbed way before lifting his eyes back to yours. “Makes sense,” he relents with a tight-chested sigh.

“Is everything… cool…?” He’s more subdued and bothered than you’re used to, and that crawls up under your skin like an army of ants. You’re only unsettled more when he startles and refocuses on you, looking a little more like himself but still-  _ not. _

“Yeah?” he stalls for a moment, voice high. “I just woke up, and that asshole didn’t even have the decency to talk to me much less bring me coffee this time.” Shaking his head, he looks toward the archway to his closed off kitchen. “I’m gonna make some. You okay with it black?” 

“Yeah, that’s good,” you murmur, shifting your weight and watching him shuffle-stomp his way into his kitchen. 

You sit on his couch, picking at a loose thread, and try not to pay attention to how long he spends in there. Maybe you should just leave. If you were sure it wouldn’t cause a problem between Derek and Carles, you would. If you had your phone- (and the balls to turn it on) definitely.

After at least ten minutes Carles re-enters the room with a mug of coffee in each hand. “Here,” he offers your cup, sitting beside you stiffly with his own cradled between his hands. 

“Thanks.” Tonguing the split in your lip, you roll your mug between your palms and focus on the subtle burn of the heat seeping through the cup. It’s just on the right side of too warm, almost uncomfortable but… distracting, for a second. Which is good.

“Are you okay?” Carles asks as you set the mug back down after sipping from it, his own cradled tensely between his hands. He looks like he doesn’t know if you’re going to bite him or shatter into a million pieces first, but you hate it either way. 

_ You’re acting weird, _ you want to say,  _ it’s making me nervous and kind of fucking me up. _ Instead you nod a few times, shrugging, trying to look casual and unbothered as you look forward to the TV. You trying to keep your voice light- though it ends up sounding strained to your ears, anyway. “Yeah, man, it’s just a few bruises and stuff. It was a good time.”

“I wasn’t really talking about that,” Carles grates, sounding- and looking- frustrated or confused or both. “I’m sort of worried about that now that you mention it, too, because no offense but you  _ sound _ like an abuse victim.”

When Dave said it- well, implied it- it was okay. Offensive, embarrassing, but okay. With Carles it sparks up something unexpected in you immediately. “Uh,  _ fuck you. _ Even if I were, what fucking- who fucking says that.”

“Classically, someone starting an intervention,” Carles replies, lowering his eyes to his mug and muffling his voice with the rim of it. At least he’s got some shame, opposed to Derek. “Sorry- that was pretty out of line. I-” he stops himself, brows screwing up tighter and lips pouting around his cup. “It’s pretty fucking nosy, I guess, but the way you’ve been dressing and acting, how you come in every fuckin’ time with that  _ doll-  _ what’s fucking going on with you? I haven’t seen you with a sword since your- your- since you got  _ stabbed _ . Jesus fucking Christ, listen to me, it would usually be an improvement not seeing someone carry around a weeb-bait lethal weapon, but shit. You’re fucking Derek now, and probably living with him- I just don’t get it.”

“I was fucking Derek before. I just took a break from it.”

“Because of Dave.”

“I really don’t want to talk about him right now.”

“So when will you?” Carles accuses, setting his cup down and turning to face you. “At what fucking point are you going to want to face this shit? Never? Are you and Derek just going to disappear like he likes to gloat he does? Change your names and fuck off to New Mexico or something? Turn into his mob wife and-”

“I don’t owe you an explanation! It’s my fucking business and I barely know you!”

Carles opens his mouth to retaliate, already red in the face, but he’s interrupted by a fist pounding on his door. For a second he goes stiff, completely still, before he heaves a sigh and stands. “Maybe not,” he says as he approaches the door, setting his hand on the doorknob and turning to look at you. “-But you owe  _ them _ an explanation.”

Oh,  _ fuck _ no.

The door opens and a flustered Dave and Roxy spill in. Dave’s hair is a mess and his outfit looks like it got lost between how  _ Dave Lalonde  _ dresses and his more anonymous outfits. You can’t tell from here, but you’re willing to bet he doesn’t have his contacts in. Similarly Roxy’s hair is half brushed and she’s still got pajama pants on. Your body locks up and you lean away from the doorway to the room, eyes prying themselves away to look accusingly at Carles, half-tucked behind the door, frowning sternly.

“You  _ told them.”  _ You growl, trying to turn your rabbity fear into something that’s somehow more…  _ more. _ “You said you weren’t going to pry and then you turned around and asked  _ him _ instead.”

“Derek’s shitty,” Carles cuts in, interrupting where Roxy and Dave were both scraping together words to blurt out, something to say now that they’re given the opportunity. “I can handle him, Dirk, but-”

“But you think I can’t?” you snarl back. “You think  _ I’m _ more fragile than  _ you _ are? Derek could tear you apart. Probably  _ would _ tear you apart. Don’t act like you’re more capable than I am.” 

_ “Jesus, _ Dirk,” Roxy finally finds her voice and launches into motion, colliding face-first with your chest and hugging tightly around you. “You are in  _ so much trouble,” _ she hisses. “All this crap with McSteamy Creepstain is one thing- like a whole freaking- freaking unopened box of- of firecrackers-” she jerks you away from her by the shoulders, her nails digging into your skin through your thin shirt. “You  _ can’t do that! _ You can’t just  _ run away _ and turn off your phone and pretend we don’t exist!  _ Look at me.” _

You tentatively drag your eyes back to the mess of smudged makeup around Roxy’s eyes, shoulders hunching under her hands as you gently twist to try and dislodge her grip.

“Who taught you that it’s okay to do that? Don’t do that. Shit might be kinda weird right now and there’s a lot of talking to do but-  _ you can’t do that. _ You-  _ fuck, _ you have no idea how-” she shakes her head, yanking you down against her and hugging her arms around your neck. 

You can only see the lower half of Dave’s body with your head ducked against Roxy’s shoulder, but even that is enough to make you uncomfortable. His weight rocks side to side constantly, fidgeting, and there are a few split seconds where you’re sure he’s just about to turn away. He doesn’t, until he does and your heart nearly leaps out of your throat.

But he’s only turning to talk to Carles.

“Uh, thanks for this. I know it’s all pretty weird and awkward but it means- I mean, it. You know, it helps a lot.”

“No shit,” Carles is starting to say and Roxy pulls away from you, abruptly shifting your focus away.

“You’re an idiot,” Roxy says, in a choked, sniffly way. “You’re an idiot and you’re coming back home with us. You look like crap, Dirk, what happened? I mean I know- but what were you thinking, Dirk?”

What were you supposed to think? What should you have done? That’s not something you reasonably expect to bounce back from and, you think, Roxy knows the extent of that better than anyone except maybe Derek. 

DerekDerek- “I can’t. I can’t go with you.”

“Dirk,” you shiver when Dave says your name and lower your eyes to your beat up shoes. “Dirk…” -the second time it’s harder to listen to- “what d’you mean you can’t? It’s- yeah, it might be weird, I can’t- you know, I can’t lie and say it won’t be, but… now more than ever we can’t run away from each other.”

“You wanna bet?” You spit out, visceral and gritty on your tongue, having your eyes clamping tightly closed just a second later. There’s a noticeable pause, Roxy’s nails digging into your bicep. 

“Rose said that you--”

“I really don’t want to hear what Roxy’s mom said about me! I think she’s said enough about me!”

“... She’s your older sister-”

“She’s  _ your _ sister, Dave, she’s not mine. I’m-” I  _ was _ , you want to say, but can’t bring yourself to, “I’m an only child. I don’t have any sisters, I don’t have-”  _ any brothers- _ “I don’t have anything, and I can’t leave because Derek’s expecting me to be here when he gets back.”

There’s silence. Roxy’s hand drops from your arm and the door clicks softly when Carles closes it. After a few more long, agonizing seconds where you ball your hands up into fists and stretch them back out, over and over, Dave finally clears his throat.

“Did Derek do that to you? To your mouth.”

“That’s none of your business.”

Dave doesn’t miss a beat: “Is Derek planning on paying your medical bills?”

“... He-”

“Is he?” His voice is harder, flatter. “Yes or no.”

“... No, he-”

“No, he’s not. But I am. Because… Because you’re my little brother, and you can’t do it on your own. I’m not gonna leave you hanging. But I have conditions.”

“Conditions… for- Conditions for you to pay my medical bills.”

“Yeah.”

Carles and Roxy- as the only other people in the room- exchange looks with each other from behind Dave’s back, Carles standing beside the door and Roxy a few feet to Dave’s side. The whole room feels like it’s waiting for you to say something, pressing down on your chest trying to force some word out. You don’t have many at your disposal between  _ okay,  _ and  _ let me hear it, _ or maybe  _ shove your money up your ass I don’t want it or need it. _

Once upon a time you would’ve thought you were  _ just too smart _ to seriously consider the last option, but the truth is that you’re just a coward. You backed yourself into a corner your whole life and you know it. As much as you might  _ want _ to scatter off to somewhere safe far, far away from all the problems you’ve made for yourself, you don’t have any tools at your disposal with which to do that. You’ve closed all the doors to a safe place and there’s only about one that’s realistically open.

“Okay,” you finally say because, for once, Dave won’t just keep talking on without you. “What?”

“I want you to live with me,” Dave says, sitting on the arm of Carles’s couch and crossing his arms tightly. He’s trying a little too hard to act cool, collected, like he has everything together. You’re pretty sure he’s flying by the seat of his pants here, but you really don’t have room to judge. Apparently he’s done more planning than you. “I want you to go to school. And I…” he stalls out, staring at you with his mouth open for all of three seconds before he shakes his head and stands again. “I want you to be in contact with me any time you’re out of the house.”

“School?” you echo, “I dropped out of high school, I don’t even have my diploma for that.”

“You’ll get your G.E.D, first, and then start going to…” Dave falters for another second before resuming with a confidence that- more than it has any other time today- looks like a mask. “-UCLA. I’ll pay for it.”

The idea of going home with Dave makes you feel like you’re gonna break out in hives- if you haven’t already- but you don’t have much of a choice. Sure, he may be your long lost older brother that doesn’t know  _ you _ knew he was found before he did. You may have some uncomfortable sexual history despite that fact that and, maybe, some lingering sexual tension that might all be in your head. You might be on the verge of a panic attack every single second (which is every single second) you think about how close he could be to figuring out how much you’re kind-of-pretty-much lying about. Hell, Roxy probably already is and she’s standing right next to you. She was hugging you two seconds ago. Was that just staging so that you’ll cooperate with Dave? Maybe they’re planning on murdering you in Dave’s basement. Maybe they just-

“Dirk? Hey- shhhh, it’s okay, hey…”

You pull back from Dave’s hands, just a few inches shy of brushing your cheeks, and clear your throat as you step back and lower yourself onto Carles’s couch. At a glance you think Dave might look upset (-hurt? disappointed?) by your withdrawal, but you push that out of your head quickly.

“I can’t just go home with you. Derek’s expecting to pick me up here when he’s off work and I- it wouldn’t- I don’t have my phone on me. I think I should talk to him about this first. He might not care and he’ll just shuffle me off without a conversation or anything, but it’s… worth giving him the opportunity.”

For a few seconds Dave is silent and when you look up you can’t read anything off of his face. It startles you how blank his expression is and Roxy doesn’t offer much but worry when you glance to check her. “... Okay,” Dave finally says. “Cool. Do whatever. Just turn your phone on.” That last command is given more cooly like the suggestion it isn’t, offhanded and careless. Your heart sinks.

“Yeah,” you reply, nodding.

Dave heaves a breath, shaking his head and looking off toward the door. Carles startles where he stands beside it, shuffling over the carpet like he’s trying to collect static as he makes his way toward the archway into the kitchen. “Hey,” Dave interrupts him, and you break from your hysterical brain for a second to appreciate Carles’ deer in the headlights moment. “Let’s smoke for a bit. Chill out and- shit, I don’t know, watch Family Feud.”

Roxy murmurs her agreement first and you tentatively follow with a nod, trying to stay loose when Dave sinks onto the other side of the couch. Carles sighs and starts interrogating Dave about whether or not he brought his own weed before they launch into a relatively normal bout of bartering, Carles rattling off prices and varieties, Dave naturally choosing the most expensive and “probably the most dank” option. Carles reluctantly brings out a baggie of the requested quality and quantity along with a dusty bong.

 

For a few hours it’s all almost normal. Granted, you’re more quiet than normal and Roxy, Dave, and Carles chatter and tease each other around you rather than  _ in addition to. _

You can’t decide if it’s because they’re treating you like you’re fragile or if they’re just not comfortable with you and the elephant you bring into the room. Honestly, you can’t even confirm if the situation is  _ really _ any different than usual or if you’re just projecting your discomfort onto… everything.

By the time Dave and Roxy leave, you feel like you’re on the brink of a coma with how high you are. You could sleep for the rest of the year you’re so off your ass. At least you don’t have the capacity to notice or care if they’re treating you any differently, if they’re acting weird. 

“You really fucked yourself, man,” Carles is telling you as he draws a blanket up over your body, sealing the deal.

* * *

 

When you wake up, your head is on Derek’s thigh and his truck rumbles around you. Lil Cal is pressed awkwardly half under your body, you’re pretty sure you drooled a wet spot on his thigh. As far as you can tell the truck isn’t moving.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Derek drawls, unphased as you sit yourself up and wipe drool off your cheek. “How’d you sleep?”

The two of you are parked outside Derek’s condo. The car isn’t off yet but Derek seems relaxed in his seat. You don’t think the two of you have been sitting here long. Derek isn’t the type of person to wait more than a minute to wake you up. If he was going to. Now that you think of it, you don’t remember him showing up  _ or _ moving you to the truck. Did he carry you or did you just sleepwalk under his prompting?

“Mhh… yeah,” you decide, rubbing your eyes and heaving a sigh that turns into a yawn. Derek laughs, drags you out of the truck after him and leads you up the stairs with a hand on your back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's what we've got!
> 
> Once again this chapter was a write-and-post sort of chapter, completely unedited. Additionally, this chapter was written over the course of a few weeks, so if it doesn't flow the way it should it's because it wasn't written in one to two sittings, haha. For those of you that'll be interested in a more completed version, after this fic is completed out I'll be working on editing it as a whole, condensing it into longer but fewer chapters, so on. For right now, this fic is really just an experience in me trying to actually finish a full length fic.
> 
> Which brings me to: Stridercest Week. Stridercest week runs from the 15th of January to the 21st of January and I'm going to be participating in it! From now until then I'll be working chiefly on Stridercest Week writing.
> 
> If any of you have any questions, suggestions or comments that you want to send me on tumblr, I'm @stimstriders
> 
> I post all links to all of my writing content as soon as it's posted on Ao3 as well as answer asks about the things that I write! Including gutter-punk. There's already some Extra gutter-punk content over there.
> 
> Thank you so much, those of you that are still keeping up with this fanfiction! I appreciate you so much.


	29. this is me noticing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, it's been a while. There's some more notes at the end, but for now here's the chapter. This is probably my favorite BroDirk chapter I've written to date.

RM: youre gonna come back right

RM: hehe do yneed someone to come hold your hair for you or something

RM: sorry that was kind of insensitive huh

RM: theres no like cool good way to handle this situation

RM: i dont think

RM: i never really thought wed be in this situation though yknow

RM: like i considered it i mean as a joke and not you and him more me and him

RM: dirk please were freaking out rn

RM: like for real you cant just

RM: god damnit

* * *

 

DL: roxy says she thinks youre staying with derek

DL: which sort of makes sense i guess i thought you guys were just like kinda

DL: sorry thats sort of a weird train of thought actually lets not

DL: man this is awkward

DL: but hey like neither of us know really where that is

DL: which is kinda scary

DL: like maybe its weird maybe i shouldnt but i still care about you bro

DL: wow thats actually

DL: ok im bombing this but anyway i still care about you its gonna take a hot sec to calibrate and stuff but bottom line its not like i hate you or anything suddenly

DL: its an awkward sitch but we can work with it probably

DL: i just wanna know where you are cuz its pretty scary actually realizing that i dont when stuff is pretty fragile rn

DL: you whipped into my life like a goddamn hurricane so its really not too outta reach mentally that youd slip your unhappy ass out just as suddenly

DL: roxy says you havent texted her back too and rose thinks you probably have your phone off

DL: i hope not yknow i 

DL: well when i think about it thats probably what you did

DL: im hoping though that you just stopped there and didnt jump state or anything roxy thinks its a possibility

DL: it seems kinda weird to say anything like “hey just answer your phone” or “hey just let us know when youve got the time or whatever” but like im kinda caught in a shitty place here

DL: not to be guilt-y or anything

DL: i just mean like idk how to end this rambling thing fingers crossed i guess?

DL: fuck thats weird and bad

DL: hope i see you soon

DL: lil bro

DL: ugh jesus

* * *

 

RM: ok so ive done some thinking

RM: im just gonna keep goin even though that sounds scary on its own i dont think youre actually reading this like in the moment

RM: but i kind of think that maybe you knew about this stuff?

RM: i love you dirky really and id say its cool its not really actually cool because like

RM: its a big problem obviously for like you know some reason

RM: social norms the whole falling in love with your brother thing its pretty awk

RM: and aside from that the whole consenty thing? like its one thing to fuck your brother but its another thing to fuck your brother without him knowing youre related

RM: anyway i feel like your initial attachment was pretty

RM: i dunno you were always pretty cagey about how you got attached to him 

RM: hey though my point isnt like “hey you knew you were fucking your brother youre a freak” 

RM: its like “hey i kind of figure that this is whats up and if this is whats up its cool for you to talk to me about it and im not gonna like tell everybody about it or anything”

RM: i hope you come around dirky and that you didnt jump state or anything

RM: i still love you buddy

* * *

 

DL: imr eallyso rry man

DL: its prett ydumb that al this happen ed like i hone stly shouldve

DL: FOREVER aog i sshouldve looked into my fmaily again

DL: it wasso stui d i just looked it u p when i w as a kid and i came tothat

DL: cocnslusin that i didnt ne edthem i was better offwhere i aw as

DL: it awas so logn i dnt even consider

DL: jehst fucking c hrist i reuind everyhting iom so so rryman

DL: uh…. sorry about that if when you ever read these

DL: it was a weird night rose was being a bitch 

DL: and i was kinda drunk

DL: you know how it is

* * *

 

RM: i miss you

RM: dave does too even if hes kinda confused about all of it

RM: mom doesnt get it but i think she feels bad

RM: idk how much youd care about her opinion but like there it is

RM: we dont hate you

RM: or think youre weird or anything

RM: dave doesnt know i think hes too caught up in his own shit

RM: i dont know about mom but she

RM: idk

RM: she wants you to come back too if only so me and dave chill out or smth

RM: stay safe

* * *

 

Just backreading has you exhausted, and any motivation you thought you had to finally reply to their texts goes out the window. You lock your phone without sending anything after halfway composing a text or two to Roxy in your head and, pinching the bridge of your nose, shove it into the front pocket of Cal’s hoodie. A heavy weight settles over your chest, compressing around your lungs, making every breath a struggle. It’s probably the anxiety. If it’s not the anxiety- well, there’s not a whole lot you can do about cancer except ask Derek if you can borrow a gun.

Dave could probably do something about cancer. And probably would, if it came down to it. With the whole conversation earlier about  _ school  _ and  _ moving in _ \- you wonder if Dave’s going to stick you on health insurance. If he’s going to schedule you for physicals and scans and blood work to make up for years of missed doctors visits-

“Hey, kid. What’re we thinkin’ for dinner?”

You look up to see Derek walking confidently into the living area, masterfully stepping over and around miscellaneous weaponry while he sifts through several take-out menus. The sheer variety still shocks you- the stack ten thick at least- but you’re jostled from your  _ luxury of the big city  _ stupor by Derek’s cold hard eyes locked onto you. “What?” he prompts, bare, sharp eyes raking over you quickly and invasively. “Not feeling take-out?”

“Uh,” you flounder, feeling your face heat up. What’re you supposed to say here?  _ Hey, I talked to Dave today. He wants me to move back in with him and he’s blackmailing me with my medical bills, so stay in touch yeah?  _ “Let’s… Let’s have curry.”

Derek scrutinizes you more closely, suddenly much more tense than he was when he walked in. The frown that turns his lips wriggles up under your skin more distinctly than his resting…  _ murder face _ does. Slowly he shuffles the menus, pulling a couple to the top before he steps around a suspicious-looking CPU to fall onto the couch beside you. “Okay,” he agrees, tossing the other menus onto the coffee table before presenting you with two. “Your pick.”

Back in Texas you had Pizza Hut and Dominoes and- if you lived in town- one chinese place that delivered. Folks in your neighborhood were more likely to pick up some cardboard pizza at the gas station down the street when they bought cigarettes and- if you were feeling fancy- you  _ could _ get some frozen “chinese” “food” there, too. It tasted a lot like stale, burnt popcorn chicken covered in sesame seeds and teriyaki, but it was… something.

Now you’ve got a well of diversity spilled out on Derek’s glass-top coffee table and you’re choosing between two different take-out menus based on whether you want butter chicken and naan or curry buns. Somehow it stirs up a bitter taste in the back of your throat, and even though you’ve lost your appetite you find yourself tossing one menu into Derek’s lap and the other onto the coffee table with the rest. Butter chicken it is.

Derek’s hand settles low on your back and you startle, turn your eyes on him, squinting as his hand rubs in tight circles between your shoulder blades. For the first time since you met him, Derek seems crushingly  _ awkward.  _ His lips are pressed together tight and he won’t quite meet your eyes for all he wants to look at every other spot on your face. After a whole half minute of this- (you admit to relaxing under his hand once you realized that he didn’t want anything from you)- he pats the back of your neck, clears his throat, and stands to wander back into the kitchen.

You realize you’ve been holding your breath when you let it out in one tense exhale, listening to his voice in the other room- his  _ on the phone _ voice, which is a strange but real distinction. You massage the pinched joint of Cal’s shoulder. “Shit’s gotten so much more complicated, buddy,” you whisper to him, dragging your fingers over the still soft fabric of his tiny hoodie. Really you should change him into something else. Sure, the hoodie is technically seasonally appropriate, but it’s never really made sense between Texas and California. It got chilly, sometimes, but enough to justify this change in attire?

You don’t know. But it’s convenient, as long as Cal doesn’t mind holding your things. You just wish he had a pack of cigarettes for you.

“I’m so fucked,” you murmur down, ducking your head to hide in the cool crook of his neck.

* * *

 

RM: so howd it go

DS: Telling Derek?

RM: you havent have you

DS: No.

RM: dirky dirky dirky

RM: dont really blame you he looks hard to talk to

RM: id bet he wouldnt mind tho?? what makes you think its a big deal

RM: if anything it seems like he wouldnt really be a guy to share his personal space

RM: not to say that youre a bummer to be around or anything but something tells me he lives alone for a reason

DS: It’s hard to explain. 

RM: yeah ill bet

RM: so like weird change of topic

RM: not really weird change of topic just a bad transition tbh

RM: you read the other stuff i sent???

DS: Yeah. Dave’s too.

DS: I just…

RM: guessing you didnt message him back

DS: Don’t know what to think yet.

RM: and that he hasnt really reached out to you yet

DS: Yeah.

RM: yeah

DS: Yeah.

RM: so was i right??

RM: dirk?

RM: :(

DS: Yeah.

DS: You were.

RM: yeah…

DS: Sorry.

DS: I’m really fucked up.

RM: were all really fucked up dirk

RM: you me dave derek mom

RM: carles probably mason i guess

DS: Is his name Mason? I thought it was Marcus.

RM: yknow i feel like a spoiled little rich bitch that i honestly dont know but he really isnt too chatty

DS: Yeaah…

RM: point is that there are probably worse things out there

RM: and youre not a bad guy

RM: its kinda like cruddy cause yknow

RM: daves kinda a mess cause of it and it was a little fucked up you knowing and him not knowing but 

RM: incest is kinda one of those informed consent things i guess not to freak you out or anything i think you know what i mean

RM: idk theres no changing it now lmao

DS: Yeah. I guess.

DS: I’m surprised Dave wants anything to do with me.

RM: well you meant a lot to him before

RM: and i dont think he wants you to mean less to him hes just trying to

RM: box it up in a way he can process it i guess

RM: or in his head salvage it

RM: hes coming to terms i guess

RM: something about the whole grieving process

DS: Like the death of me as his in house fuck buddy, relearning me as his shitty little brother.

RM: something like that i guess

RM: you know it was more than that though

RM: he wouldnt be taking it as hard as he is if it wasnt

RM: he wouldnt be trying so hard to keep you probably

RM: i love him to death but yknow hes like that

DS: Y’all’ve done a lot of bonding, since, huh.

RM: idk its

RM: youll probably see when you come back

DS: What, the kitten you adopted together?

RM: jesus dirk

RM: are you jealous??

DS: I’m teasing.

DS: Or trying to. All of my social interaction lately has been… lacking, to say the least. The tone’s all lost.

RM: might just be text

DS: Nah. When I talk, too. It’s probably the nerves.

RM: probably lol

RM: im still in your corner dirk

RM: its just not one that opposes dave yknow what i mean??

RM: even if it feels like it

DS: Yeah… Thanks, Rox.

RM: ;3

* * *

 

“Are you dropping me off with Carles again, today?”

“Yeah. Got work to head off to.”

The way he says it like a given cause and effect has your lips twisting up and your hands wringing Cal’s wrists. “I don’t need a babysitter, you know. I’m smart enough not to lick a bomb or play with guns. Hell, I’m a whole adult. Not even that  _ just turned eighteen _ kinda adult. I’m two years past that.” 

“Yeah. Y’do need a babysitter,” Derek says without a beat, pawing through the clutter on the coffee table. “And let’s be honest. You’re not that far past that,” he doesn’t even look at you when he says it, like he’s giving you instructions rather than acting like he knows you.

Bristling, you stay still and silent for a moment- give him a chance to elaborate- before stepping up to the accent table beside the door and grabbing up Derek’s wallet. No doubt what he’s hunting for. “The fuck does that mean? I may not be… fully competent, but I  _ am  _ an adult. You of all people should know my issues aren’t yours.”

When Derek turns on you, you extend his wallet toward him and set your jaw as you turn your eyes up to his. Snatching the wallet from your palm, Derek squints down at you and lifts his chin the barest amount. “You don’t want to be alone. You might think you do, you might think you’re better off, but when you’re  _ actually _ alone it’ll be the worst fucking depression of your life. The fact of the matter is, no matter how much you want to isolate yourself to  _ be strong _ , and  _ not be a pussy, _ you ultimately want people to reach out for you.” He lifts a hand, grips your jaw in his hand and squeezes until it hurts. “You might not like it, but this is me noticing. You came to me for a fucking reason.” He jerks his head toward the couch as he shoulders past you, slapping your ass a little too hard. “Go get your fucking doll. I already texted Carles.”

Tonguing the inside of your cheek you lean over the couch to grab Cal by the hood of his sweatshirt, tucking him against your chest. Your face is hot with embarrassment and anger both and you keep your eyes locked down on the ground- won’t even look up when you hear Derek’s heavy, distinct footsteps re-entering the room.

Your eyes do snap upward though when you hear a familiar, malicious laugh. “Fuckin’ look at you, kid. You’re  _ pouting. _ You’re on the brink of throwin’ a fuckin’ tantrum because I was right and you didn’t wanna hear it. Y’kiddin’ me? Look at me.” You meet his eyes, if only to prove that you can, but it isn’t long before they drop to his chin instead. “Yeah. Thought so. Look, baby,” his hand cups your cheek, rough-palmed and holding you rather than caressing you.

“You throw these little fits, make these big gestures, ‘cause you’re beggin’ for someone to play into your dramatics. It’s a little bitch move, frankly, and if you don’t wake up tomorrow and regret it you’re gonna wake up in a few weeks and realize how stupid you’re acting. I get that shit’s rough right now, but y’can’t look me in the eye and tell me y’seriously want t’just disappear off the face of the earth and have nobody come after you ‘cause it’d be more convenient. May be practical- may  _ sound _ practical- but it’s really just masochistic. It ain’t maturity that makes people entirely self-sufficient, baby, and it ain’t a sign of maturity if you are.”

Derek thumbs the split in your lip, presses down on it until you flinch away. It’s only then that he lifts his thumb, cups your jaw more softly. “You’re broken,” he says, matter-of-fact. “You need it. I’m givin’ it to ya. So fuckin’ deal.”

His hand drops to your shoulder and he steers you out of the apartment.

* * *

 

Derek steers you up to Carles’s door with his arm slung around your shoulder, even though he has no reason to walk you in. In fact, you’re pretty sure he’s late for whatever work he needed to do today- unless he factored in his lecture this morning. The words are on the tip of your tongue-  _ you don’t need to walk me in- _ and you’re pretty sure he knows it. 

“Don’t pout,” he orders at the top step, grinning down at you in a vaguely threatening way. “It’s not cute.” 

When you grunt he ruffles your hair, combing his fingers through it briefly but disturbingly  _ tenderly _ . The moment is over in a snap when he swallows his keys up in his fist and pounds on the door. Carles is easier to deal with if you treat him like a babysitting bot rather than a friend you have to entertain, so you drop your eyes down to Cal- cradled in your arms. He and Derek can chat, entertain each other.

The door cracks and the first thing that alerts you to something being  _ very wrong _ is the sick, dark way that Derek chuckles. Low in the back of his throat, hand resting heavier and more firmly on top of your head-  _ “Well would you look who it is.” _

You lift your attention so fast that your eyes hurt, locking on to the Bob Ross shirt hanging loose around Dave’s chest, then up to the crooked, square frames of his glasses. Your heart drops into your stomach and your hand fumbles to latch onto Derek’s elbow. “Cool, hey, Carles thought you might show up. Nice t’meet’cha, I’m Dave- bet you already know that- Derek, right? I’d offer my hand but- yeah, no.”

Derek’s arm slips from around you in favor of pushing his way into the apartment ahead of you. You rush to follow, gripping as tight as possible to Derek’s bicep. You don’t think it phases him at all. You doubt- you  _ really really doubt- _ that you could do a whole lot to hurt Derek or even  _ slow him down _ if you needed to.

You clumsily close the door behind the two of you with your foot. Dave has already backed well away from the door, positioning himself casually in front of Roxy- your heart drops lower, if that was ever even possible. Oh, yeah, this is going to devolve  _ very quickly.  _ Dave is already eyeing you up any chance he can get when he’s not staring Derek down. He’s probably worried- wants to protect you, too, somehow. Like you need it.

“So what the fuck is this?” Derek snarls, shoulders hunched high, muscles prominent. Like a cornered animal he barely tears his eyes off of Dave for a second to look accusingly- threateningly,  _ oh God threateningly- _ toward Carles, who shrank behind some furniture before the two of you even properly came in. “What the fuck is he doin’ here? You tip’im off?”

You don’t know where to put yourself.

“Me? Him?  _ Bro, please- _ ”

_ “Don’t _ fucking call me that.” Derek snaps immediately, attention turned in full back on Dave with a visceral snarl and two steps forward despite you digging your heels into the hardwood. Hell- he just fucking drags you along with. 

“Derek-”

_ “Dude,”  _ Dave stresses, interrupting you and putting weight behind how much he obviously thinks Derek is pathetic for insistence over such a small thing. That only makes your stomach knot up more. “-It’s California. You made the mistake moving here. And for real, man, you’ve got some nerve getting upset about it. Carl didn’t do anything wrong,  _ I’m  _ trying to get my- him. Back. To give him something more stable than borrowed shirts.”

“Stable?” Derek laughs, more emotional than you’ve ever seen him and subsequently more volatile. Darker, meaner. Scarier. God he’s fucking unhinged. What are you going to do.  _ What are you going to do. _ “You kidding me? Like having control over every aspect of his life  _ and _ being his ex? Yeah- sounds real  _ fuckin’  _ stable.”

Dave bristles, face flushing bright red and shoulders squaring up. You watch, gaping, as he flounders with what got shoved in his face. A glance at Roxy tells you that it’s at least as bad as you think if not worse. “At least-” he blurts, presenting a trembling finger, “-I’m not  _ fucking abusive. _ I’m his brother. Not just some fucking  _ maniac _ that bloodies him up.”

You hear Carles take a sharp breath across the room, punctuated by a whispered, miserable  _ “fuck.”  _ Derek stiffens up under your touch.

“Yeah,” Dave continues boldly, taking a step forward. “Do you even look at Dirk? It’s obvious that-”

Derek starts to draw his arm back and you move. You can’t win a fight against Derek, but it feels like you blink and Cal’s out of your arms- shoved instead into Derek’s face while you catch his broadly swinging right arm and reroute his momentum to let him throw himself over your shoulder. Instead of going over- like you anticipated- his full weight slams against your back and stops. His arm curves in your grip, fits tight under your chin up against your windpipe. You choke, shuddering and digging your nails into his skin, and Cal hits the floor with a clatter. Both your phone in his pocket and the cool porcelain of his head. You flinch when you hear him crack on impact.

Dave is frozen across from you, Roxy and him both wide-eyed and staring at Derek like he’s a bomb waiting to go off. You don’t blame them, really. The room is silent now, aside from Derek’s tight breaths against the top of your head- but you imagine only you can hear that. They’re shallow. Quiet in a way that seems intentional. His heart is beating really fast against your shoulders. And he’s shaking.

“Let’s just-” Carles slowly starts the second before your hand falls from Derek’s wrist. Nobody needs to tell him to shut up. He goes quiet the second that Derek shifts his arm, loosening his grip and letting your feet go flat on the floor.

“Don’t be fucking dumb. And don’t get in the fucking way,” he growls, arm going loose around you- sliding back ‘til it’s just his hand holding your shoulder. You swallow thickly, narrowing your eyes at Dave as he makes to take another step forward and Derek’s fingers dig in.

“See?” Dave says, because he’s a fucking idiot. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. What the fuck was that?”

“That was your little brother trying to save your  _ white little ass _ from what you’re too fuckin’ stupid to understand,” Derek spits. He’s still shaking.  _ This close _ , you think, from shoving you aside to finish what he was just about to start.

“What? A fucking psych-”

“Dave-” Roxy starts to cut in before you talk over her.

“Both of you, chill out. Dave, sit down.” You grab for Derek’s free hand, squeezing around his fingers and trying to swallow around the lump building in your throat. 

“What? Why do  _ I _ have to-”

Carles clears his throat, steps forward and guides Dave by the wrist to the couch. “He’s right,” he’s saying- voice lowered and shaky- “you should sit down.”

“This is my fault,” you say as you turn toward Derek- sure to keep your body fully in front of his still. You’re smaller than he is- by a lot- but you still feel more in control of the situation when you’re in between Derek and the rest of the room. “I should’ve talked to you earlier, I…” you clear your throat, trying your best to keep the shaking out of your voice and meet Derek’s eyes.

(It’s hard. They’re cold and vicious and somehow in the last five minutes the way he looks at you has completely changed. There was some sort of understanding between you, before, but now- now you don’t want to think about what’s changed.)

“What.” He prompts, voice flat and clipped and cold. 

“I talked to them yesterday. They. Came around here. Kinda like this. And sort of sprung it on me. But- Dave wants me to move back in with him. And he wants me to get my G.E.D and start going to school again. He says he’s gonna pay for it, and my bills…” your heart is in your throat. Derek doesn’t look impressed.

He snorts.  _ Laughs. _ “So he’s blackmailing you.”

_ “No, _ that’s not-” Dave is halfway off the couch before Carles and Roxy tug him back down again, hush him sharply. You glance back, both your hands braced on Derek’s ribs to try and hold him steady. He’s not looking at you, anymore, instead looking over your head at Dave with a bone-chilling  _ hate _ on his face.

“It- well. I don’t- I don’t know. But. That’s not your business, right?”

Derek grunts, settling his eyes back on your face. He looks distinctly uncomfortable- like a cornered animal that doesn’t trust anyone in the room. It’s like he thinks you’re breaking up with him. (Haha, yeah, right. Derek’s made it distinctly clear in the past that he doesn’t want a  _ relationship.) _ It’s- well- it’s more like he thinks everyone in the room’s against him.

And that’s not fair. That’s not fair at all.

“Yeah, well, I do know. And that’s fucking shitty.” Derek keeps his eyes locked over on Dave as he lifts a hand to hold you by the jaw. “And you wanna take this shit, huh? Live your awkward poodle life in one wing’a the estate, big bro paying your bills, havin’ you finish your life the way he wants?”

“Well.” You take a breath, grin crookedly with your face smushed between his digits. “It’s for free, right?”

Derek grunts again, sounding unimpressed but not as pissed as before. “Sure,” he says finally, smudging your cheek with his thumb in parting and looking back to the three on the couch with a threatening grin. “Visitation’s over.” 

More than that should definitely be said, but Derek drags you promptly back out the door- only giving you enough time to snatch your phone from where it skittered across the floor. A short whine twists out of your throat when he tugs you away from Cal by the arm. You shoot a desperate glance to Roxy, who nods to you frantically.

Finally crowded back into the truck, Derek barely waits for your door to close before he pulls out. His knuckles are white and the steering wheel creaks under his hands. You shrink down in your seat.

“Are we goin’ t’your work?”

“We’re going back to my place.”

“Oh.” You press your hands between your knees until it hurts, turning the vibrator on your phone off with a few shaky swipes and taps. “Are you mad?”

“Yes.”

You go quiet after that, crossing your ankles and looking out the window. You only reply with a murmured  _ yes sir _ when he tells you to put your seatbelt on.

* * *

 

Derek leads the way into the condo, throwing his keys onto the table next to the door as he turns to face you. “I should’ve told you sooner,” you blurt out, eyes locked up on Derek’s oakleys as he lifts them up to the top of his head. “I’m sorry. I just… choked up last night, and I thought I had more time.”

“Why does it matter?” He asks his questions more like he’s quizzing you- like he knows the answer better than you do and he’s just asking to check what you’re going to say. On a normal day- in a normal conversation- you have plenty of trouble figuring out what the  _ right thing _ to say in a conversation is, but the resulting upset is about ten times worse under this kind of pressure. ‘Cause, with Derek, there’s  _ always _ a right answer. Or, at the very least, there’s always a wrong one. And you have a better record for finding the wrong ones, you think.

“I feel like I hurt you. And… I don’t want to do that.”

Derek steps forward before he answers. The drawn out silence is intentional, you’re sure, when he coaxes your chin up with a curl of his fingers underneath. “That’s cute,” he huffs, fake amusement and condescension layering his voice. Everything about his tone says  _ you think you can hurt me? That’s hilarious. _ But… he doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t say  _ you didn’t hurt me, _ and he doesn’t  _ actually _ say that he doubts you could. It’s all implication. Or, maybe, misdirection.

“So we’re playin’ hooky today?” Half of the sentence is distorted by Derek’s thumb on your lip, hooked into your cheek, but you manage to get the whole thing out relatively unphased. He kisses you instead of answering, backing you up against the door and holding your throat in one hand. He digs his thumb into your airway, sinks his blunt nails into your skin and drags until they raise welts. 

Your whined complaint against his mouth is met only with a sharp nip to your sensitive lower lip.  _ “Derek,”  _ you huff when he separates from you- gives you the slightest opportunity. His name is raspy and weak with the pressure on your airway. 

“Shut up.” Ordered curt but firm. Derek’s hand falls from your throat and grabs your hip instead- fingertips bruising- sliding down and hooking behind your thigh before he hauls you up his body. Your legs are hooked around his waist, shaking and squeezing too tightly with the effort of trying to hold your body up- even though Derek is doing that well enough on his own.

Hell- the way he shoves you against the door, pins you there with the pressure of his body firmly against you- he probably doesn’t even need to hold you up. It’s for his own benefit, then, for him to dig his fingertips into your thighs and  _ squeeze. _ With an added bonus of leaving marks. Which- (you wince as his teeth dig painfully into your neck and he sucks relentlessly)- is, no doubt, his end goal.

“Should- we talk about this?” your voice cracks at the peak of a particularly vicious suck.

Huffing out an airy but still pointedly malicious laugh, Derek draws back only enough to make eye contact with you out of the corner of his eye. “What’d I just tell y’t’do? It sound like I wanna talk?”

“Didn’t ask if y’ _ wanted _ to,” you point out.

Derek drops you. You barely catch yourself with your hands at his waist, legs bent into an awkward and slightly painful crouch- until you settle onto your knees. “Well we ain’t gonna, so it’s a pretty fuckin’ pointless line of questioning.” Again. Still not a denial. His left hand squeezes your shoulder painfully and the other tangles up in your hair- pulling you flush to his crotch. The zipper holding his fly closed scrapes against your chin, making the skin it skates over red and raw.

With a short huff you voice your displeasure, glaring upward at Derek’s cocked eyebrow and tense jaw. Like always it sends a shiver through you, has you adverting your eyes under the influence of some fucked up prey instinct Derek instills in you. “You’re doin’ the same shit I do,” you point out in a sudden burst of confidence, bracing the heels of your palms at Derek’s hipbones and shoving him back. He stumbles, letting go of your hair and taking two involuntary steps back. Derek is visibly shocked for all of ten seconds before he steadies himself with a sneer on his lips, shoulders squaring. You haul yourself back to your feet.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Your voice is low and surprisingly steady, almost coming off calm if not for the tremble running underneath it. You advance those two steps, pressing your palms flat to Derek’s chest-

Even though he wants to be touched, (you know he does,) Derek flinches back at the initial touch of your hands. One of his own hands reaches up to catch your wrist- bruisingly tight- and his fight or flight posture says what he verbally won’t. Maybe even can’t.  _ I didn’t mean that. Please touch me. _

“M’not goin’ anywhere…” you repeat again, softer.

“You just fucking said that.” Another noncommittal response. But he lets you rub your free hand up to his shoulder and rub the juncture of his neck and shoulder. “And you are, anyway,” he says after a brief pause. “‘Less you’re plannin’ on blowin’ Dave off. You are.”

“Yeah, not in the permanent sense though.”

Derek grunts, eyes narrowed like he’s puzzling you out. Cattish gold-brown eyes flick side to side as you looks from one of your eyes to the other. “So what’s the point? The fuck are you sayin’ that shit for.”

“Fact is, you might think you wanna isolate yourself to  _ be strong _ and  _ not be a pussy, _ but you want people to reach out for you.” Derek leans away from you as you speak, one of his feet shifting back and his hand loosening on your wrist. “You might not like it,” (you follow him with a step forward) “but this is me noticing.”

“That’s cheap.” Derek’s voice, for the very first time since you met him, is weak and shaky with something other than aggression.

“You’re holding onto me for a reason,” you point out- just shy of echoing his words from earlier today  _ again. _ “So… let me take care of you. Let me show you it’s not… futile.”

Derek chokes on a bitter laugh, but he can’t bring himself to refuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some stuff happened! Awesome!
> 
> So as far as an explanation for the past few months. Life's been pretty terrible financially, which doesn't help my mental situation- on top of that, I almost completely stopped writing for various reasons, most chiefly being my financial and mental situation. I still want to finish gutter-punk and round it out into something I'm proud of, but it might take a while (and I understand that the wait for this chapter has been ridiculous and waits for the chapters to come might continue to be a little ridiculous). I appreciate all of the feedback up until this point, (especially the feedback that has come within these last inactive months) and I really really really couldn't have kept this up without y'all. If you're still hanging onto this fic after this long, you're fucking _awesome._
> 
> For immediate update notifications on tumblr, you can follow me at [stimstriders,](http://stimstriders.tumblr.com) my ask box is always open and I'm happy to answer any questions or comments on gutter-punk or anything else you happen to read of mine with so far an 100% chance of your ask getting answered.
> 
> If you feel like buying me a coffee or two on my [ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/nihilistending) I'd appreciate that a whooole bunch. Super special thanks to JoJo, who _already did that_ even though I've been inactive for a million and a half years- thank you _so fucking much._


	30. a label for me but not for you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the eve of this fic's first birthday, miraculously, so a very good time for an update. conveniently, i'm also feeling really fucking shitty right now so it's time to update the ventfic. Happy one year, you guys! It's fucking ridiculous that this fic is still going on.

In a way, you feel like those girls in high school that perpetually end up with guys just as shitty as their trashy abusive dads. Anyone could’ve pictured you where you are now- (more theoretically than realistically, considering nobody knew you well enough to reliably picture you _anywhere.)_ **_Here,_** though, is a lot more complicated than even you thought. Really, if anyone told you back in high school that you’d end up where you are now, you’d be mortified. If you took a second to believe them.

In the real world, there aren’t any storybook tropes where everything is tied up in a neat little bow. “ _ The good underdog makes it out in the end,”  _ or “ _ shitty people never leave their shitty town, be it figuratively or literally”  _ and- wow- that’s where all of this started, isn’t it? That’s what the fucking crux of the exposition was.  _ Trailer trash is always trailer trash, no matter what. _

And maybe that’s still a little true. But it’s for entirely different reasons. 

Dave is shitty. Probably not trailer trash shitty- (poor people don’t have the monopoly on alcoholism, we all knew that, but somewhere along the way you sort of assumed they did right? You came here because you thought it’d be different. All your fight about Dave being shitty was built up on your fear of disappointment and your bitterness that he didn’t know a thing about you)- but a spectacular kind of real life person shitty that you really should’ve thrown  _ everyone in the goddamn world _ into when you started categorizing. 

But, fuck. Derek is shitty too. And  _ you’re _ shitty. Triple Ds, winning the fucking shitty lotto.  _ Shitty, shitty, shitty-  _ shit’s gushing out of the coin slot or ticket slot or- 

You’ve never been to a casino or really seen anything casino-y outside of James Bond movies and those weird gas station slot machines that you never actually dared to touch.

Ultimately you know your own baggage. You’re finding more of it by the day as you dig through the closet, the attic, and generally all storage space in the house of your head- but you have more access to yourself than you do Derek or Dave. Derek- surprisingly- you have more of a shot with: he’s got some coded system that you can parse out at a rate of about a line per  _ month,  _ but Dave… Dave is a complete fucking mystery. You can take a wild shot in the dark, but he’s very rarely serious even in serious situations and-

Well, you really know Dave about as well as he knows you. Maybe even worse than he knows you.

Looking at Derek, though, helps you decide a thing or two about Dave. By extension. --Honestly, it warps your whole world view on people, but the only people you care to think about are Dave and Derek. If you start thinking about it too hard, you start thinking about your  _ dad _ and… You don’t really feel like going there anytime in the next forever.

It all comes down to this. It’s not beneficial to Derek for you to crop him up to  _ shitty  _ and call it a day. Abusive, alcoholic, druggie, dangerous, psychotic- any number of labels you can put on him doesn’t really help either of you. It’s not you  _ understanding what kind of person he is,  _ it’s a shortcut. And the same goes for Dave, right? He’s got issues with drinking, he’s got issues with being serious, he’s got- well, he’s got issues. What kind of person does that make him?- Either of them?  _ A person. _

(And honestly, at this point, can you blame either of them for their respective substance addictions? No, not at all. That opens up a whole ‘nother somethin’ that you’re not really excited to get into.)

Doesn’t mean they’re good people, or that it’s cool for them to do that- act that way, be that way- but. It’s… something. Probably.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Sitting on the arm of Derek’s couch- which is pushed to the edge of the living room up against a wall dressed with sharp things- you watch Derek move his other couch and shove his coffee table toward the floor to ceiling windows. Bottles clatter and roll, Derek twitches- blink and you’ll miss it- and slaps down a flat air mattress with more force than necessary.

Derek hasn’t really perked up, not that you expected him to, but he’s leveled out. He isn’t growling or sneering or trying to back you into a corner and purple you up. He’s still quiet. And he isn’t carrying himself the way  he usually does.

(It’s weird how you can tell how he feels by the way he moves, now. Especially when the cues are  _ so, so small _ that you don’t know when you started seeing them. Is this a new Derek thing, or something that you’ve always been able to do- you just never wanted to acknowledge it in another setting.)

You wonder if your cues are obvious or if they’re… like  _ this.  _ According to Dave they’re pretty crystal clear. Are you more obvious than you thought, or is Dave just more perceptive?

“I feel like it’s a waste to just get pizza or chinese. That’s all we had back where I lived before.” You’re shocked by how laid back you sound as you lean toward the displaced coffee-table, scooping up all of Derek’s take-out menus. Even that shock doesn’t show in how you move and talk. This is surreal. Derek’s attention is on you now, rapt, even as he sits at the edge of the air mattress and pumps. You hope it doesn’t have any holes in it or anything- he dug it out of the back of the hall closet and it looks pretty old.

“Well. D’you feel like one’a those?” His voice is quiet. It doesn’t feel like  _ Derek _ talking- the way he speaks is too  _ subdued. _ A frown turns your lips.

“No,” you sigh. “Not really. But I don’t feel like… miscellaneous Asian foods.”

Derek pauses pumping and the air mattress holds. There’s a soft  _ scritchscritch  _ sound of him scratching through his stubble. “What about In-N-Out? We can use one of those delivery apps.”

“Sure,” you agree, tossing the menus back onto the coffee table and digging your phone out of your deep pajama pocket. “... You’re from Texas, right? We never really talked about it. Not that I remember, at least.”

There’s a second where he doesn’t say anything and you look back up, find him staring down at the pump- which he’s moving back and forth absentmindedly. Inwardly you wince- not in that heart-thudding, stomach-churning way, just  _ sympathetically. _ You blundered right into this topic of conversation without thinking about how fragile it may or may not be. “Yeah,” he finally says. “Houston. The actual city, not…” he waves his free hand, “the  _ area, _ like you are. I hopped around some of the other cities when I was younger, but I stayed in Houston longest. Why?”

He sounds defensive. “You ever miss Whataburger?” The tone of your voice is almost… hopeful. Weirdly tuned, to your ears.  _ Awkward, shitty small-talk. _

Derek looks up, eyebrows raised, then gives you an honest to God smile. Or- at least- the closest thing you’ve seen on his face to  _ real _ smiling. Sick, baby-eating grins and predatory smirks you have plenty of experience with- but not… this. Your heart damn near fucking stops, restarting when he chuckles and shakes his head. “Yeah, I miss Whataburger. It’s been a while. Considered flying out just for it, a couple times. That never really goes away.”

You order food for the two of you and he finishes pumping up the air mattress. He flicks on the TV. You go back to his bedroom to scrounge up all the blankets and pillows you can find and bring them back out to the living room. You lay down and start nesting while Derek walks aimlessly from the kitchen to the living room and back. He’s empty-handed, for the first few rounds, before he comes back with a trash-bag and a six-pack of orange soda.

Derek starts dropping empty beer- and liquor- bottles into the trash-bag. He tidies and you aimlessly flick through channels- (and try not to make it obvious that all of your attention is on him)- until the doorbell rings and Derek ties up the bag, goes to get the food.

You sit up and make room for him, adjusting the blankets up until he slides into place beside you and sets your box of burgers and fries in front of your knees. The two of you sit pressed together, using opposite hands to avoid bumping each other. You could probably hold hands, like this, and still eat interrupted. Instead the two of you use your closest hands to fight over the remote. And Derek-

Derek lets you win. Relinquishes the remote, flicks your cheek, and goes back to eating with only a huff for appearances when you stop on King of the Hill. The two of you eat mostly in silence, balling up your burger wrappers and tossing them in the box when you’re done. Derek tosses the remains of your meal over toward the sealed trash-bag when you’re both done, pops open a can of soda and lays back- his body turned toward yours.

“We should play that game again.” 

It takes you a second for the words to click into place in your head. “I thought that was just a screening thing?”

Derek grunts, rearranging the pillows at his back and tugging you back against them alongside him. He lays his head on your shoulder, nearest to him, and says: “You go first.”

“I…” Is this really a baggage game, or is it just an excuse to talk? If tropes and high-school-never-ends rules are to be believed, probably the latter. That fits Derek and you both, that you can’t overshare without being given an engraved invitation slash reasonable cop-out. 

One of Derek’s bare eyes opens- more honey-molasses than properly yellow in the low light- and he weakly glares. “What?” he grunts, starting to get defensive again. Embarrassed. Doesn’t wanna seem like he’s  _ asking  _ for a heart-to-heart.

“My dad wasn’t shitty all the time,” you blurt out. Guess forever ends now. “I mean, he was. When he wasn’t ignoring me he was taking shit out on me- not even really physically, just. It got to the point where being in the same room as him was a chore. It got worse as his health got worse. As his financial situation got worse. There- there was one point where he was spouting a bunch of shit about going off and being homeless, because it would be better than the shit we were struggling through. All this agonizing-  _ you’d be better off on your own _ shit.”

“Which you were. How old were you for that?”

“I don’t know. Fourteen? I already hated him back then, but it was still a… scary thing for a kid to hear. I wasn’t ready to be on my own yet. Honestly, I don’t… think I ever really was. I’m still not. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Shit, you think  _ I  _ do?”

“Uh. Yes. Yeah, I do.”

There’s a lapse of silence for a second and you chance another look at Derek to find him sipping at his soda, sitting up a little higher to do so but keeping his eyes lowered. Once he’s done, he rests the can upright on his thigh and twitches his finger in a twirling “ _ go on” _ motion. “That still sounds kind of shitty, what’s the part where he was less shitty?”

“I… Mm… I guess there really isn’t one. There- fuck- I guess there were just times where he seemed like he was less shitty. Like… in the back of my head I knew it was all selfish, and it all made me feel like shit, but even then I knew some of that was him trying to care about me. In his own way. Maybe it’s just the  _ he raised me _ guilt talking...”

“You starting to feel bad for punching his ticket?” Derek makes room for you as you ooze into his side, huddling up against him even if that means taking away the shoulder he leaned his head against. He shifts for you, lays his head on the pillow and makes a nice space for you in his armpit.

“Not for his sake,” you mumble, even if you doubt it the second it’s out of your mouth. “I don’t regret it, really, I think if I didn’t I would’ve spent the rest of my life living with him, dealing with his crap. But… I’m worried about what it says about me.”

A low hum vibrates against all your places that are pressed up against Derek’s chest. The two of you sit in silence, huddled up together, until the episode you’re on ends and cycles over to some other show. Neither of you really pay any mind beyond turning the volume down to near mute. One aspect of the sensory experience is cleaved off, but the colors and light flickering around the otherwise dull room is good enough.

“I think it’s your turn,” you finally say on a borderline sigh when that particular itch for stimulation fuzzes up in your chest like static.

“I used to be in love with this islander guy.” Derek doesn’t hesitate to say it, and the words smack into your stomach like a sucker-punch, rupturing some vital digestive organs. You look up, turn your eyes to the stubbly underside of Derek’s chin just as his free hand- (unoccupied by a cold soda can)- lands on top of your head. Derek, seriously uttering the word  _ love _ in reference to himself.

“Fuck…” you utter without meaning to.

“Yeah,” he sighs, sounding uncannily unaffected. “It was a wreck. Neither of us knew how to deal with it. I kind of pressured him into it, then suffocated the living hell out of him once he was in my grubby little hands. Not literally. Know that there’s a real possibility of that, considerin’ I’m basically a hitman and all, just the figurative sort of suffocation. Which isn’t much better, really. I blew off back to Texas when all that fizzled out. Never heard from him again.”

“That-” your brain stutters to a stop before restarting like an old lawnmower. “That’s it? You just… never heard from him again?”

“Yeah.” The only thing betraying Derek’s discomfort is his hand tightening in your hair, balling up in it with only the balm of his thumb coasting across your forehead. “I stalked him on Myspace a little bit. Then on Facebook a few years later. He did some travelling like he always wanted to. Probably ended up marrying that girl he was with before, or somethin’.”

_ Maybe you should hit him up again, _ you start to think- the words vibrating against your teeth before you clamp them off. Even you can tell that’s a bad idea. “Ever think of trying to get in contact with him again…?” Marginally better. Not much, but a little.

“I was fucked up then, but shit sure didn’t get better. If anything things would end a hell of a lot worse at this point.” Derek shuffles a little further upright, chugs the remainder of his soda and chucks the can toward the In n Out trash. “You know, people like us have expectations for romantic gestures. It’s the same shit as you and Dave. You ran off and wanted him to come chasing you down with a rose between his teeth- but normal people don’t do that. It’s just us. Waiting for people to go the extra ten miles and getting all weepy when they don’t. Even when we probably wouldn’t either.”

Derek lets you have a moment to soak those words up, his fingers rubbing the nape of your neck and his head dipping against yours. “Yeah,” you eventually agree. “Yeah, I guess we do do that, don’t we.” Frowning to yourself, you lay your head against Derek’s collarbone and sigh heavily against his skin. “You ever feel like you fucked up your life, and you just  _ keep  _ fucking it up, over and over again, even if you’re not doing anything or trying to do everything right?”

“Movin’ halfway across the country to stalk your estranged brother is doin’ it right, huh?” Derek sounds amused, at least, and you’re not- well. You can’t deny it. And in retrospect, it’s pretty fuckin’ stupid. And a little comical.

“Well- everyone was always telling me Texas was a hole. That my town was a hole. My neighborhood. And they weren’t really wrong, were they?”

“Texas has some nice places. You just ain’t been able to get a real look at’em. But… generally, yeah. Guess so.” Derek relaxes back into the pillows and pulls you more firmly against his side. “When I met you, you were this nonconformist, angry little goth-weeb-punk wannabe. What happened? Came to L.A. as a  _ gotta get outta my hometown _ upstart prick all along? How could’ja lie t’me like this?”

You know Derek’s fucking with you, teasing you. The point is that you’re not that thing, but maybe you are that thing. “I don’t really know what I am, man, or what I was. I… have never known what I was doing, and I’m still figuring shit out… I just. Don’t know if I’m  _ ever _ gonna figure  _ anything _ out- Ow!”

You startle, duck your head and try to pull away as Derek roughly pinches your cheek and pulls. “Shut up, kid,” he says, sounding tired, before he releases you and pulls your head back by your bangs. “Listen. It sounds like some cliche garbage, but anybody that says they got life figured out is lyin’. Everyone does life wrong, everybody has regrets. You ain’t supposed to have yourself figured out yet. Or at all. Ever, probably. As far as I’m convinced, anyway. You ain’t a baby anymore, but all that means is that you’re accountable for treatin’ people like dick and doin’ the shit people don’t think is polite for society. Okay?”

You turn that over in your head while Derek’s hand softens in your hair, strokes through it instead of yanking on it. “Okay,” you reply when his hand starts getting a little rougher, looking up at him and blinking long and slow. “I don’t know if I’m cut out for school. I’m pretty sure Dave doesn’t think I am, either. He’s just trying to tie me down.”

“Well, he’s a moron and you’d probably get bored at school. College is a waste, but you’d blow ‘em outta the water.”

You squint up at him. “How d’you figure?”

Derek shrugs. “We’re the same. Not a lot of people can keep up with me. Certainly can’t if they’re morons. Some reason I end up attractin’ a lot of your types, though,” he waggles a finger in a circle around your nose, gesturing to your whole face. “The kind that think they’re idiots but really clearly ain’t at all.” He drops his hand to your chest, putting faint pressure there. “What’re you gonna study, do ya think?”

“I don’t know. General shit, I guess. Whatever Dave puts me in.”

Derek shoves you off the air mattress and you squeak, whining as you peek back over the edge to glare at him. “What the fuck?” you growl, lowering your voice intentionally halfway through. Obviously it doesn’t convey how pissed you are, ‘cause Derek just raises an eyebrow and offers you his hand to help you back up.

“You think I’m gonna let him do that shit? No, I’ll kick his ass. And  _ you _ better, too.” Derek resists your attempts to yank him down with you and just hauls you back up onto the wobbly bed. He spends a minute re-righting the blankets around you both, tucking you into the pillows. You’re halfway suspicious that he’s just trying to trick you- ready to dunk you back onto the floor. “You pick what you want. What do you like?” 

“I don’t know…” you say at length, after about a minute of pause that Derek is gracious enough to give you. “Art, I thought, maybe. But… I don’t know. I liked- I like building things, I guess, making things?”

Derek gives you a weird look, staring down at you and raking his eyes over your face. You shrink back and look away only for him to grab up your jaw and hold, redirect your eyes back to him. “Okay,” he says, slowly, “making things is cool. I make things. What kind of things d’you want to make?” 

“Well I- used to repurpose old dolls and clothes and shit into puppets, back home. It- it wasn’t one of my more public hobbies… but it was… something. I liked that, I guess, but. I. Mm…”

“Spit it the fuck out, twerp,” Derek orders, flicking your cheek before soothing over it with his thumb. You’re starting to get a little freaked out by these softer gestures and, with a glance at Derek’s face, you think he is too. He drops his hand to your neck instead. Bracing. Gentle, but still firm and controlling. More his speed.

“I liked working with people’s cars. I always wanted to do more with metal and parts but, uh- I never really had the capability.”

“Bull. You could do it.”

“I mean-  _ money.  _ I could never afford to work with anything good.”

Derek hums, low and gritty in the back of his throat. “Alright. So let me help you, and mooch off of your shitty brother.”

“He’s not-”

“Take his money.”

You raise both hands in surrender, placating. “You’re… gonna help me, then?” You glance around the cleaner but still cluttered room, the metal parts lying around the edges, the half and fully constructed weaponry. “You want me to make bombs or something?”

Derek shrugs. “We could do that. We could make weapons or robots or… just cars, I guess. Whatever you feel like making I’m down for it. And I can just help you with your school crap.”

Shifting uncomfortably, you clear your throat and push yourself to sit up higher. “You don’t have to--”

Clapping his palm over your mouth, Derek cuts you off. “No, fucking seriously,” he pushes you down against the pillows again, tugs you close to his chest and twists to hover over you. “I’m gonna help. You ain’t gonna ask for help, otherwise, so I’m taking away the option. I’m helping you. And if y’don’t let me, I’ll kick your ass.” 

You grunt softly, pulling at his wrist until he removes his hand. In the dark, with the TV behind him, his face is cast entirely in shadow- but you can still see the shape of his eyes narrowed in faux threat. Daring you to refuse. You sigh and mumble something like an agreement- (the second it’s out of your mouth you forget the words)- before leaning up to press your lips flush to his. Derek hums against your lips, soft and considering, before he parts his own and pulls at your lip with his teeth. His weight settles down over you, sinking you down into the air mattress as his knee swings over your thighs and he makes a cage of his body around you. 

Derek is subdued but simmering with pent up energy that’s been churning through him since you got home. It’s not irritation- Derek burns off irritation like coal, letting it flare up into a fistfight or rough fuck before he settles down into his typical lax guard dog demeanor. Instead it’s… softer, more vulnerable, and not something you’d dare to mention under any circumstance. It’s the overwhelming build up of  _ something _ before you burst into some sweeter, softer meltdown. Like tears. Maybe Derek’s on the verge of some specific anxiety attack, or a swing downward from his near-constant  _ mania _ into depression. 

“You think too fuckin’ much,” Derek grunts against your cheek, teething just on this side of  _ too rough _ to be a love-bite; pinching your cheek between his teeth. You swat at his shoulder and he lets go, pressing a kiss to the hinge of your jaw instead.

“Like you don’t do the same thing.” Not that you’ve seen him do it. Not in bed, at least. Not with you. “Don’t be a hypocrite.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “You’n’I are natural hypocrites, Dirk. Don’t give me that.”

And… well, you don’t have a response for that. He knows it, too. Laughing under his breath, Derek drops back to your side and pulls you against him as he presses his nose up against your neck, under your ear. “Whose turn is it?” he murmurs against your skin. 

_ I think we’re well past that, _ runs through your head in a flash. Tentatively you touch your fingers to the back of his neck, feeling him tense and relax underneath them. You slide your shaking fingers up into his hair, wrap your arms fully around his shoulders and nuzzle into the top of his head. “You’re really special to me,” you say instead. “I love you. Not- like- ok, stop freaking out.” Derek grunts, an uncomfortable sound with his body fully rigid against yours. Nonverbal but vocal. “Not in a romantic way, or whatever, just that you’ve helped me a lot. I can connect with you in ways that-” You sigh heavily, frustrated, and clutch Derek to you a little more desperately. “You make me feel like a person more solidly than anyone else ever has. I thought- I always thought I was too different. That I was  _ something else  _ other than everyone around me. Fake, or- or just not human. I don’t know. But you- you make me feel different. Not normal, but- not like I’m completely separate from everything else. Like I’m not alone.”

It’s a minute before Derek even says anything. He just shifts against you, like he’s trying to get away but not quite sure he wants to. You know he doesn’t. If he did, he would’ve. “I’ve fucked shit up with you,” he finally says. “I’m going to keep fucking shit up with you.”

“I fucked shit up with you, too,” you point out, loosening your arms around him and giving him space to move- to look at you. He doesn’t take it. “You could’a done worse.”

Now Derek pulls back, squinting down at you like you’re  _ insane. _ “I made you kill a guy. Probably scarred you for fuckin’ life while I did it. And I considered doing it again.”

Yeah, that. You rock your weight uncomfortably, pushing up on your elbows to be a little more level with Derek. “Why didn’t you? Do it again, I mean.”

Derek sucks in a breath and hesitates. His eyes slide away from yours- he turns his head and looks off to the side, his profile outlined in the light from the TV. “I… have… Had, I guess. I had a little brother. Have a little brother.”

The way Derek flounders sets you on edge. He never does this- never flip-flops between terms, like this, or stumbles over his words. You stay quiet, biting down on your lip and trying to stay still, too. Any wrong movement and he could flip, back out, push you away. 

“My parents disowned me back when I was younger- younger than you, actually, practically a kid. It was never official or anything, but they kicked me out and I ran off pretty happily. I wasn’t talkin’ to them, only vaguely knew Deej existed, really. They died- he was, like, nineish at the time- and he got landed with me. It was that or foster care and- I don’t know. I heard a lot of shit. Figured it wouldn’t be a big deal. I’d just come back to the U.S, after the whole… thing with Jake. I was a pretty shitty guardian. He ran off back in ‘12. He was fifteen.”

“Do you, uh… know where he is? Where he went?”

Derek shifts his attention back to you, looks offended for all of ten seconds before his expression smooths back out. “Yeah,” he relents on an exhale. “Washington. With one’a his friends. He’s safe there, I did a lotta diggin’ into the family. Single dad, works as a P.I. Seems like a good enough dude. No record, wife died’a cancer or somethin’ when his kid was real little. Some nice extended family with normal ass jobs.”

The words close like a fist around your heart. Derek is so like you in that way, too, keeping tabs on someone that apparently doesn’t want anything to do with you. Not a good habit, not at all, but… In Derek’s case, in this one instance, protective rather than… 

You shake the train of thought off.

“So… you didn’t do it again ‘cause you’re tryin’ t’be a better person.” 

Derek snorts. Loud and brash, open-mouthed. “Please,” he stresses. “Ain’t gonna happen. I just… you…” he chews his lip when he stops, conflict writ over his expression. Sighing, he ultimately resigns himself to his words, looking entirely unhappy with them. “You remind me of him, sometimes. Or just… maybe what he could’ve been, if he stuck with me. If we grew up together. It’s pretty fuckin’... not right, but-”

“You don’t mean it that way, though,” you interrupt. Taking a page from Derek’s book, you lift a hand and grip his chin- squeeze his jaw between your fingers and pull him to look at you. “I know what you mean. I know how you look at me, sometimes. I’m a lot like you in some uncanny ways.” That’s what it was, that weird look from earlier. Derek realizing how similar you are, how easily you could pass for his family. “We’re a lot like each other. Like I said, that… connection that we’ve got. Whatever you wanna call it. It’s got nothin’ to do with how we started to get to know each other. With how- with the shit we do.”

Derek doesn’t look convinced, but he settles down some. Sighing, he lays his head in your hand and rolls his head to lay his cheek in your palm when you shift it. “It still isn’t right. I’m not right. And whatever- whatever I manage to get right with you doesn’t change shit with him. Shouldn’t even be connected.”

There’s not much you can say to that. Not that you haven’t already, at least, and not that Derek wouldn’t see as coddling; said for the sake of his feelings rather than reality. You roll your thumb against his cheek instead, brushing over the gradient of his stubble to smooth skin. “You’re not a good person,” you relent. “You’re not a good person, I’m not a good person- I really don’t think good people exist, actually. Everyone does shitty stuff. Really shitty stuff. There’s no use getting caught up in labels like that.”

“I’m a bad person,” Derek says, lifting and dropping one shoulder in an exhausted sort of shrug. There’s no real conviction behind the words, and to the average ear it might sound deadpan and matter-of-fact. There aren’t any tears or bitterness. 

But for Derek, it’s quiet. It’s quiet and disturbingly weak. Nobody else would, but you can hear it. If it was anyone but you, that would be it. That would be Derek, no arguments;  _ bad person _ end of discussion. And somehow that’s worse than anything. 

If it was you- if it was you saying it,  _ I’m a bad person _ , so flat and factual like you mean it more than anything, like it’s something you just know about yourself- you would want someone to say the opposite. Prove you wrong,  _ fight you on it.  _ Care enough to see you differently and go out of their way to let you know.

“You do good things, Derek. You might do a lot of bad things, might’ve done a lot of bad things, but you do good things too. And you can be better.”

“I don’t know about that, kid,” Derek says, voice worn out and body too heavy to keep itself up over you. He sags down against your chest and lets you bundle him in the blankets and into the crook of your neck.

“I do,” you promise. You whisper the words against his forehead and ignore the way his breath hitches.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

As you pull up to Dave’s gate, Derek is still pouting in the passenger’s seat of his truck. He didn’t want you to drive and honestly you’re not sure how you convinced him to let you, anyway. You’re glad he did, though, if only for Marcus/Martin/Mason’s sake. You don’t know how Derek would handle having a gate between him and his destination and having someone else be in charge of opening it. If you had to guess, not well.

Marcus/Martin/Mason barely glances at you before flicking the switch or pressing the button to open the gate. Your polite wave is reduced to an acknowledging flick of your fingers and you pull through, feeling Derek’s building irritation the longer Dave’s driveway goes on.

“This is obnoxious,” he says just as you pull up to the front of the house.

“It’s definitely excessive,” you agree, extending your hand to pat Derek’s knee after you put his truck into park and wiggle the keys out of place. “You ready?”

Derek doesn’t answer. Instead he shoves open his door and steps out onto the pavement. You follow, looping around the car to Derek’s side just as the huge front doors open and Dave steps out. Roxy is hot on his heels, one arm curled around Cal. Your heart throbs painfully, but your attention is pulled away by Derek’s hand on your cheek.

It’s awkward. Soft at the initial touch before quickly redirecting to your shoulder. His palm lands there and his fingers squeeze- you note the briefest flick of his line of sight toward Dave and Roxy. His voice lowers. “You’ll be fine,” he says, and you’re shocked enough to almost physically sway. “It’s gonna be weird, but don’t fucking chicken out. You’ll regret it later. But still, just be your fucking self. If he can’t handle that, it’s his fucking problem and not yours. If it gets too weird, just hide with that girl or text me.”

“Text you?” You echo, scrambling to add to it when Derek’s hand almost immediately draw back. “Like- to come get me, or just- what if you’re busy?”

Derek’s hand steadies after a second or two, then shifts to squeeze the side of your neck. “I won’t be. Tell him I’ll kill him if he does anything weird and make sure he knows I mean it.” Derek tips his head toward Dave indicatively, pulls away and snatches the keys from your hands. “If they try t’tell you y’can’t come see me or talk to me, don’t be a little bitch about it. He’s not actually the boss of you. And you still have other options, if this gets…” he waves vaguely, eyes straying back toward Dave and this time locking onto him.

They glare at each other. Dave crosses his arms, Derek drops a hand to his hip and raises an eyebrow. You knock your shoulder against Derek’s bicep and only then does he refocus on you. “I’ll keep you updated.” You keep your voice low. “I feel like I’m being dropped off for my first day of school.” 

Derek frowns and grunts, but reaches out to you again. He grips the back of your neck, squeezes and rubs, and it’s practically a hug goodbye. You duck your head and bump your forehead against his chest, drawing back when his hand loosens. “Keep your head,” he says, rounding the hood of his truck.

“Stay out of trouble,” you say back, already feeling more raw and vulnerable. He laughs, though, before he climbs back into his truck and starts pulling out of the driveway just about the slowest you’ve ever seen him drive. And that’s something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, it's just A Lot More BroDirk. But we're getting somewhere, probably.


End file.
